


dear, i'm always running towards you

by goreallegore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Football | Soccer, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goreallegore/pseuds/goreallegore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He blocks it all out, the cheers, the profanities of overzealous fans from the opposing team, and focuses on one thing, a soft gravelly voice, <i>“Good things take time.”</i></p><p>Or; Niall plays for FC Barcelona, and Harry's a photographer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New York

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outwardbound93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outwardbound93/gifts).



> hello, hi, what's up. this fic is and was an adventure and written mainly for my love, sav. but if you squint enough all the maple syrup, and the horseshoe crabs are dedicated to amy and taylor. i did and have worked hard on this and i love football but have been out of touch with it since, well, college. but i hope you can look over any discrepancies. and well, i hope you enjoy this !!!!  
> p.s i stan real madrid and ronaldo so i took the opportunity to kick messi out of this verse :-)
> 
> oh and thank you to my incredible beta, amy!!!!!!!!

_ 23 _ _ st _ _ of April, 2013 _

 

Blindsight. Rookie mistake. There is a clearing in front him, the damp turf beneath his feet staticy with each glide, and the goal post is close - enough to aim in a goal if wanted and he takes the chance running towards the post, his peripherals blurring. There is a pang, a flash, then their is a stab of pain at the back of his knee as the tip of a cleat collides against it solidly. His knee wobbles and then Javi is pushing past him steering the ball in the other direction. Distantly he hears a whistle go off, the deafening silence washing over the brimming stadium and then with a heavy fall his head meets the ground. 

 

_ September, 2013 _

 

Evanna Graydon is the woman who’d by some long-standing connection had attended one of Grimmy’s poorly decorated social evenings or as he’d like to refer, ‘trinket teas.’ Harry plucked one of those bite-sized appetizers, spinach quiche the waiter had said, and scarfed it down right before his mate brought over the lady who’d give him his longest lasting professional offer, and he’d accepted it smiling complimenting her sleek black dress that curved around her hips. She said she liked collecting pretty prizes much like the trinkets Nick had named his party after somehow alluding to the fact that she’d been well-charmed.

 

She pushes the file at him rolling her eyes over the email she’s busy scrolling on her rose gold iPhone, her manicured nails - this time a starburst orange - sorting the important from the junk. She’s humming Adele’s latest single under her breath, the words incoherent, while Harry’s trying to do a quick readthrough over his next assignment, frowning immediately when he realizes their next issue is over an athlete. This is not his cup of tea, in fact, he’s very sure Desiree would love to show off her uncharted knowledge over who’s won the recent championship. 

 

With a long suffering sigh, he declares, “I don’t want it.” Eva and him are at a comfort level in his profession where he can on hand reject any assignments he’s not comfortable with and that has only happened once before, which was covering Taylor Swift, again. They got off on the wrong foot after the relationship she’d anticipated hadn’t panned out. He was 22, freshly out of school and climbing the ladder in his career, he wasn’t nearly ready. But, this isn’t the same. This is clearly out of disinterest which Eva must’ve caught onto because she clicks her teeth the way his nan used to when he’d push his forefinger into the honey jar to swoop out a dollop. A mess that was to clean. “Honey, you can’t get out of this one,” she says. 

 

Harry settles back into his chair, countering it with a simple, “Desiree can do it. I am already busy with the shoot for the Laurene Powell story, she’s adamant about adding a picture that represents her, and I’m quoting her on this about her, ‘philanthropic adventures,’”

 

Evanna glances up, setting her jaw and her eyes stern, which is a rare sight for himself though many of his co-workers, Pixie on more occasions than one, has been subjected to, “Listen, we have been rejected a chance to interview this kid for ages, now. He was the youngest person to score the vice-captain position and the rising star and now he’s in a rehab trying to get back on his two feet, literally, and to get this story is big.”

 

Harry raises a finger to put in a stellar recommendation for Desiree once more, who would most likely care, but. “If you don’t take this then this story won’t be good enough, won’t sell, and we can’t afford that. I am assigning Eleanor to your team since you lot are already attached to the hip. I am gonna let Max email your itineraries, you’re flying to New York on Thursday.”

 

That is the end of the discussion seeing as she’s looking through her folders again, switching over to her desktop and typing away, probably a note to Max or something. Harry pushes back his chair, the legs of it grazing the plush carpet, and steps out of the office leaving the door ajar in case she’d need to call out to her PA. 

 

His grumbling doesn’t go unnoticed because Eleanor is sliding her chair over to his cube, a steaming cup of coffee in a mug that reads ‘ _ ROCK HARD BABE _ ’ and hands it to him, “Soooo, I called Grimmy and decided we’re going out tonight. Jello Shots at ours and then we hit the club, yeah?” Harry gives her a thankful smile, dipping his tongue in first into the scalding liquid, if he cusses a storm after it’s his fault to begin with. 

 

_ 2nd of September, 2013 _

 

Zayn is soft, tentative. When he moves around the room his footsteps barely make any noise, the cotton of his socks rubbing against the bristles of the carpet, he sets the tray on the coffee table with an array of choices because he cares like that - knows Niall eats eggs only once a week, bagels on Sundays and cereal almost every other. But he brings him waffles doused in maple syrup with a glass of orange juice and a mug of tea which Lou probably made, he’s here too, snoring away with his back aligned to Niall’s and their bums touching. Very sweet, it is. 

 

Niall presses a flat hand on the mattress pushing himself up, swinging his legs off the edge with caution not to let his bad knee knock against the wood, and croaks, voice heavy with sleep, “You didn’t have to.” He vaguely gestures at the nicely made breakfast, “Like do all that. Got plenty of helpers around.” He hates asking for help. Zayn knows, hums, “That fucker beside you made the tea at crack ass of dawn so figured might as well cook you up something with it. Had to heat it up, regardless.”

 

Niall smiles, grabbing the fork and knife and cutting his waffle into bite-sized pieces stabbing a fork thru one and drenching it into syrup before bringing it to his mouth, dabbing at the drop that dripped at the edge of his lips. Zayn reaches forward, his fingers weaving through his hair that is laying limp on his forehead, pushing it back and leaning forward enough to hang over the table, and presses his lips to his skin. He stays there for a moment, a warm sensation crawling all over Niall’s body to his fingertips, and finally pulls back, pleased. 

 

Niall smiles up to him, the brown of his eyes glinting a softness that is usually present in Liam’s company, and being on the other end of it is nothing less than great. Two more days until they leave. Niall can feel the onset of emotions splurging out of the him. He takes another bite to stop himself from saying anything stupid. 

 

The rest of the evening is spent playing card games, starting off with Craps which Louis is horrific at and complains every two seconds over, and then ease into Kings. They let Louis pop the can even though it hisses at Zayn’s turn, and it’s less fun when Louis is chugging to a crowd of only two, but Zayn laughs through his nose, anyway, and Niall is happy. As much as he can be. 

 

_ 4th of September, 2013 _

 

Zayn leaves the physiotherapist with a list of exercises Liam had sent over, one’s that will help with rotation, flexion - basically one’s that are to help loosen his core and get him on his feet. Niall bites his tongue at the bitter words wrapping around his mind like a layer of paper-mache around cardboard. Not thick, but not thin enough. The truth is because of his own careless mistake he might’ve put a fullstop to his career, might’ve kicked the ball towards a losing game, and that he has accepted - nothing like coming to terms with 5 stages of griefs in one solid trip. 

 

Once the boys have packed, stowed away their luggage into the boot of the cars that are pulled outside the rehabilitation center, they come to bid goodbye. Zayn tears up every time, this time more so because he’s going on tour starting October meaning he won’t be around for a bit, and Louis. Well. He’s not one to say I’ll miss you seeing as he already shoved his next flight information in Niall’s hand last night. He just wraps a hand around Niall’s neck pulling their foreheads together, “Shape up, Champ. Can’t do next season without you.”

 

Niall breathes in the smoke on his breath, the mints he nicked from Niall’s drawers, and heaves a laugh, “Fuck you, man.” Zayn tugs on his thumb, swiftly kissing his temple, “Love you, Ni.” 

 

They leave around 9 am and the doors to his room open again at noon when the supposed reporter crew are meant to arrive. Stella, his personal nurse shuffles in, wearing a smile - a bit infatuated since the moment he’d arrived at the center. Niall doesn’t have the heart to say a firm no, nor the energy to say a heavy yes, and before he reaches his crutches she’s saying, “They are here. Sitting in the living room, shall I bring them in?”

 

She’s preening under his gaze and it sets his stomach to churn the way a plunger digs into the barrel when you’re making fresh butter, and suddenly his sullen mood shifts reminiscent to anger, and he hates the immobility, the feeling of being helpless. He nods, the girl walking out and hollering in the said people. A crew, a pack, a hoard, there are too many nouns of assemblage that could be used to describe the people walking in, and without much effort Niall’s quick to dislike them all. At the end, once a pretty brunette with a Fendi purse he remembers he got Barbara last year, trickles in he thinks his list of people he’s likely to dislike has ended. Until. A tall lad, having an inch and half over him at most, stumbles in, his blouse akin to something found in Johannah Darling’s wardrobe, promptly knocking into the oak door. He steps back, frowning at the offending object and turns over to Niall, instantly lighting up. 

 

“Niall Horan!” He cheers as if they are long lost pals having found one another at the town carnival, steps forward enough that his arm can be stretched out for a handshake, “‘m Harry Styles, and I’m here to catch a sneak peek into your riveting life.”

 

Niall scoffs, “Riveting is one way to describe it, Mr. Styles.” Harry waves him off, making it at home by settling at the edge of the bed, “Please, call me Harry.” Niall notes not to. There are two females in the room, he hopes he’s not misgendering, and three males apart from the chatty girl who’s standing next to Harry, hovering like he’s her favorite flower whom she enjoys sucking the sweetest of nectars. 

 

Harry dives into describing their routine for the next couple of days and how this is one of the biggest stories Vogue has done on athletes considering his situation and all, and Niall grimaces at that. ‘Situation’ they call it in softened terms, not alike to the harsh headlines that were splattered across every newspaper, sports magazine, since March. Zayn had called in pulling strings trying to tone down the heat of many, but there is so much you can do. Louis had punched Javi out at the ending UEFA party held at Neymar’s after he'd made an upsetting comment. “Rather have written about my anger issues than your valid injury, Niallar,” Louis had said with a shrug. Niall could never. 

 

After he’s listed the schedule for the first few days he dismisses his crew, himself getting up holding onto Eleanor’s elbow, she’d introduced, and shakes the tangles out of his hair. It is just past his ears falling into twists, reminds him of rotini he’d been so fond of cooking for sunday meals during off-season with his mates - would invite Zayn, Liam, Louis, and the irish pals he’d made living in London, they came to call themselves the LIC. 

 

Harry smiles wide showing his perfectly straight teeth, probably the same since his milk teeth fell out to make space for the permanent ones and Niall thinks he’s pretty enough to walk a catwalk, enough to stand beside Barbara and look effortlessly stunning, says, “If there is anything you’d like have done differently we’d be more than happy to accommodate. Creative input is always appreciated.”

 

He sounds like he’s reading instructions from the back of a hardware catalogue; wrench, $40, heavy and durable, and, so on. Niall twists the border of his shirt into a knot, his voice shaky, “I don’t want the rest of the troop around. Send them home.” Harry opens his mouth, closes it promptly, his face crestfallen, “I’m not sure I am understanding? They are the makeup and lighting crew I’d be nee-”

 

Niall doesn’t let him finish, sure he’d rattle off reasons that aren’t to his liking, “That or no interview. Your choice, mate.” Harry purses his lips, and Eleanor shifts uncomfortably around him rubbing at the elbow patch on her sweater, “Alright, as you wish.”

 

“Fucking Diva,” Niall hears him swear under his breath on his way out. He sighs, laying down on his pillow,  _ he’s anything but _ . 

 

\--

Harry drops his messenger bag on the hotel bed with a loud grunt, annoyed doesn’t even come close to how he is feeling. “If this kid thinks I’ve sucked dick to get this interview then he’s so damn wrong, I fucking hate prats like him, born rich growing richer.” Eleanor winces, sipping on her beer bottle, “Actually….” To which Harry gives her a set glare, ordinarily feeling guilty because he knows what is coming next, “Let me guess, made a name for himself, hard working chap, etcetera, he is.”

 

She nods, biting down on her lips, stifling a laugh, and that makes him even more mad. The wealth obviously got to his head, fucking twat. Harry unbuttons his shirt, brushing it off and crouching down to his suitcase and unzipping it to pull out a pair of shorts and soft cotton white shirt, “Okay, fine. But he can’t just ask me to get rid of my staff because he feels like it, like El, how am I supposed to be able to shoot, take down notes, and manage to charm him.”

 

Eleanor trudges over to the mini-fridge, bending over and picking out Bailey’s for Harry and bringing it over, “Here, drink this, and as for our staff issue. I’ll do it. Got a good hand on makeup and can definitely mess about with the lighting and stuff, we are the dream team, could definitely cope with another diva.”

Harry grins, accepting the bottle uncapping the bottle, “You’re my hero.”

 

“I try,” she winks. 

 

\--

Niall wakes up shaking, the smell of the coarse football field tangible under his nostrils, the coach yelling his ear off vividly reeling a film over and over.  _ Do you think if I’d not gotten injured we’d have won?  _ Niall had asked Louis one night, not Zayn he’s too kind - not honest enough -, and he’d just brushed him off. Louis won’t give a straight answer; honesty is all Louis knows.

 

He runs a palm over his face, his finger touching the beads of sweat trickling his forehead, and gulps down the buildup of saliva in his mouth. He turns over, more easily now than he could couple of month ago, and grabs the glass of water, removing the saucer from it and takes a drink out of it. Niall tries to calm his nerves, singing to the tune of ‘New Kid in Town’ and stares at the ceiling, they’d let him hang glow stars all across the ceiling, they’d let him have a part of him they can’t take away. 

 

\--

“Overexposed,” Niall is saying into the mic Harry is holding to his face, the rockiness of his voice being imprinted into the recorder. The question had been: if you had to sum your football career into one word, what would it be? The boy could’ve chosen from the long-standing synonyms for ‘fantastic’, but, alas, he’s set to surprise Harry today. Not that he’s forgiven for his choice of diction, no. 

 

“Why’d you say so?” He prompts, encouraging more than stiff replies as they sit outside in the garden, absorbing the sun on this gorgeous day. It is the perfect temperature, a cool breeze amidst the sunny rays, the kind to curl up in the hammock and read a classic, Harry Potter or, maybe, even, Lord of the Rings. 

Niall shakes his head, a hint of smile, “As the word means, I’m Niall Horan, ex-Vice Captain and Forward for FC Barcelona. Why do you think?”

 

Every fibre of Harry’s being stops him from rolling his eyes, but then, a flickering emotion crosses Niall’s face, but he’s already moving to the next question, “Next please.”

 

“In your process of recovery how has your football club acted in your absence? Have any of your teammates gotten the chance to visit? Give a call perhaps?”

 

Niall twitches a bit in his seat, shifting his bad knee that is covered in a brace showing off his fairly hairy legs, and up-close despite all Harry can admit he’s quite attractive. He’s not big, but his body is lean, with eyes that tend to shift on a spectrum of blue he’s not familiar with. Harry thinks if under different circumstances, for both, he’d have made a move; especially if the boy had kept his mouth shut. Moment later, Niall answers, “Yeah, couple.” He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t for any answers.

 

They are finished a lot quicker than Harry had timed for, usually his interviews going about as long as 2 hours, sometimes more. However, Niall had been distinctly concise to the point where he was taking away information more than he was giving. Painstakingly he presses the button to stop recording, getting out of his chair as Niall struggles to get up. Harry wants to offer a hand, but is instead saying, stopping Niall from his previous attempts, “Listen, mate, I get it, you’ve had a shite year and the last thing you want is an interviewer hounding you over some integrally invasive questions. But we’re all trying to do a job here, and you’re making it harder to do mine.”

 

Niall is looking up at Harry, blinking and then ducking his head, his shoulders tightening and the muscles in his back flexing, with the movement, under his white shirt, “You can leave.”

 

“Oh, for christ’s, fine,” Harry stomps out of the garden doors, into the villa and then out. He’s usually fond of his interviewees but this time round he’s not so sure. He unlocks his rental car that was arranged for him by the company and digs out his cellphone from his back pocket, dialing the first priority number, “Evanna, hi.”

 

She sighs into the speaker having already heard his complaints about having his team sent back because the sportstar couldn’t handle the ‘pressure’ as he’d reported to Harry’s bosses, “Yes, what is it now Harry?”

 

“The fucking arsehole won’t give me one straight answer, are you sure he agreed to this? Sure as hell looks like his agent booked us without any prior permission on his hand.”

 

“I’d appreciate if you don’t call me again to spit out foul words while we’re still addressing our clients,” she starts off with, which. Well, she’s right, but he’s annoyed and he should be able to complain to her especially because. “Eva, babe, I can’t do this,” There is rustling coming in from the other end, and then he can hear a door closing, “We’ve talked about this, Harry. The way we’ll be addressing each other.”

 

“‘S not my fault you have decided to just not listen to what I am trying to say, love,” he presses a hand on the steering wheel digging his nails into the rubber around it. She groans, “Harry, why can’t you understand this write up is important. I don’t care what you have to do - kiss his ass for all I care, just get me the story. Why is this kid living in a rehab instead of going  _ home _ ? Rather strange, innit?” Infinitely, but he’s not intrigued enough to stay and get ridiculed on the clock. “Besides, if you do this well, then it is best for all of us. You know what I mean? A light at the end of the tunnel, sweetheart.” He hates being called that, but he won’t tell her that. He hangs up after another round of convincing.

 

The next number he dials is filed under ‘ _ WHEN PRIORITY #1 FUCKS UP’ _ .“Nick, my boss is being stubborn,” he starts with. There is honking, and a cheeky laugh and Nick is talking into the speaker, “One, hands-free, two, the same boss you’re currently fucking?”

 

Scandalous won’t cut it so his friends have taken it upon them to tease him till he’s drained of any annoyance, “Yes, the same one. She happens to get mad at me at times.” Nick whistles, “Sounds like a girlfriend, mate.” She’s not, never in her terms. Open relationship is the farthest they’ve gotten to describing their arrangement and even then Harry has turned a blind eye to it. She’s just considers him as an easy good lay, albeit younger and, well,  _ he works for her _ . Casual.

 

“I am breaking it off once I am back in London, “ he says, and Nick rebuts, “Yes, the 17th time you’ve said so, Young Harold. Anyway to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, except your usual bitching?”

 

“What do you know about Niall Horan?” Harry’s abrupt, careless with his words, not worrying that his windows are pulled down and anyone from the facility could over hear him. He’s not too bothered. “The star footballer?” Nick asks. “Yeah.”

 

“Reckon, he’s best mates with Zayn Malik, the bradford lad?” And Harry remembers hearing one of his tunes on the radio, wicked voice, shame it isn’t his type of music. “What else?”

 

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” So Harry lets him go on that note, a promise to dig into Niall’s life if that is the last thing he does. He starts the engine and puts both of his hands on the steering wheel giving the assortment of personalized villa a last look over before he drives away, the sky is pinking a soft orange, and Harry can’t help but feel guilty now. The flicker of emotion crossing Niall’s face returning like a vivid picture. Harry tries not to sympathize with the word overexposed. 

\--

Niall feels terrible about how he'd acted with Harry, it's just the need to get personal with him wasn't necessary and he'd been tired that day. Liam had called saying how he better shape up  if he wants to play for the upcoming season and it's like everyone forgot he got a major surgery done on his knee and would need time to recover. His friend encouraged him, sends positives vibes his way, but he's not too enthralled. 

 

There is a bouquet on his dresser sent from Louis’ mum and it's awfully kind. They've been here for him for so long that he's lost count, the containers kept after licking clean the food Tricia would send over still sit in his London home. The restlessness of his bones make it harder to fall that night; he's thinking too much. About Harry in particular. 

 

A steady buzz vibrates his side table and he catches a glimpse of Barbara’s picture in his screen, he moves to grab it, sliding on the glass and bringing the phone to the shell of his ear, “Hello.”

 

“Hey, babe,  how are you?” She says, there are people in the back from what he can tell, a stream of chatter filtering in. 

 

“Good,” he replies, sadly. They've been at this game for a while and he's not sure why she hasn't broken up with him as of yet, but here they are. 

 

“My shoot today, let me tell you,” and she's rattling a story hosting foreign names. They stay talking for maximum fifteen minutes until she's being called for touch up again and Niall’s forced to say a goodbye. There was a time he'd have been beside her and now he's farthest from. 

 

\--

Harry tosses and turns in his bed, the sun is above the horizon shining brilliantly, the clock reads  _ 6:57am _ and hour of the morning isn’t unfamiliar to him, he’s inclined to get up and carry out his yoga routine, but right now he’s restless. Blindly he searches for his phone under the covers and when his fingers come in contact with the rubber case he pulls it towards him, unlocking and dialing the number to the rehabilitation center. He books an appointment first hand, and hops out of bed, not bothering to wake Eleanor up.

 

The bathroom has tiles pressed onto the walls and a shower head encased in a glass cube, he steps inside fidgeting with the knob until it is the right temperature and turns it on, the water dribbling over him, the warm temperature soothing the knotted muscles in his back. Last year, he’d have done anything to be able to get his hands on said interview, but lately it has all been the same. Meeting a celebrity, taking notes over how their perfect life has little bumps - one had even said it’s quite terrible they can’t sustain their gluten-free diet because of how limited the options were in the food market, right not that people are actually dying out there and can’t even afford stale bread, of course gluten-free items are our biggest problem. Not to mention the whole relationship with Evanna has come to bite him in the arse - he wants more, she wants just what they have. 

 

There’s whizzing and he opens his eyes seeing his phone on the basin, from where he’s standing he can’t quite read the name, but he reckons it can wait until he’s washed his hair proper. Harry squeezes a shampoo bottle to get a dollop sized goop out on his palm, rubbing them together and then massaging his fingers through his hair. He misses when it was longer, when he play with it in the shower, but he’d have to cut it. Once the waters drained the dredges of soap from his hair, his skin clean off any residual grime, he turns off the tap. 

 

With a tug he grabs the towel, moving it up and down his body soaking in the water droplets clinging to his skin, and then drapes it over his head, wringing it until he feel satisfied and then wrapping it around his head. He steps out going over to the sink ignoring the way the steam from the shower has clouded his reflection in the mirror and presses the home button on his phone. It reads a missed call,  _ Evanna _ . Harry sighs before using his forearm to wipe down the mirror to get a better look at his face, he sees dark circles under his eyes instantly thinking of the cover-up he’d seen in El’s purse, but it’s his eyes, mostly. Pretty empty, he’d say.

 

Walking out into the room naked sends a shiver down his spine, goosebumps emerging like little hills trailing his skin, and he trudges over to his suitcase, picking out a grey full sleeves plain shirt, tugging it on and leaving his necklaces clink together as they settle outside on the soft cotton. He searches for briefs and finds black ones that he pulls on, then blue jeans because he’d dropped tomato sauce on his pair of black one’s the night before when him and El went out for dinner. After he’s done getting ready and pulled on a floral print bomber jacket, grabbed his DSLR off the table along with his car keys, he’s rushing out, climbing down the stairs instead of taking the elevator - helps him wake up and stick to his gut decision. He stops at Starbucks to get a quick cup of coffee and a lemon pound cake, scarfing down the slice in seconds with minimum effort, and drives into the parking lot of the Rehab Center. 

 

The receptionist is fairly polite, guiding him to take a seat until the patient's personal nurse comes down to get him, and when she does - her nametag reading stella - she’s rather chipper. She rattles off a story about how she’d been very lucky to get a job here right out of nursing school, especially because the pay is enough to start paying her students she’d stacked up. Harry sympathizes, but can’t entirely relate since the Uni fees in England aren’t nearly as jacked up as the states, decent amount that he was able to pay with a part-time job at the bakery.

 

They near Niall’s room, the door left ajar and the girl pauses, timidly tip-toeing towards it and saying meekly, “Mr. Horan, the photographer/Interviewer is here again. Would it be okay if I send him in?”

 

Niall’s voices comes through, soft and at the edge of sleep, “Yes, I’m just changing. But you can send him in.” Harry claws to grasp the feeling, side-steps the nurse into the room where Niall’s standing upright with his hands searching for opening of the shirt he’s clutching on to, he offers Harry a smile, “Hey.”

 

Harry doesn’t know what takes over him just that he feels the need to push forward and grab the henley from Niall, helping him put it on, once he’s slipped his head through the neck hole and his arms through the sleeves, Harry tugs it down to cover his stomach, his fingers barely brushing the soft of his belly - he’s lost all muscle there, he can tell. The room is dark like all the other times he’s visited apart from the windows that stream in sunlight behind the cotton curtains, white. The fading blond of Niall’s hair seems lighter standing here. 

 

Self-consciously Harry steps back stumbling into the edge of the bed which upset his balance, almost toppling over until Niall reaches forward and steadies him, “Easy there, lad.” There is something different today, Niall’s no longer staring him down like an outsider, instead the press of his fingers on Harry’s side are gentle, his eyes crinkled, and the air of tension is cleared out between them. “I…,” Niall starts, rubbing the back of his neck as Harry notices color rise in his cheeks, “I wasn’t in a good mood the other day, and interviews aren’t my thing, y’know? Reckon, I should apologize?”

 

“Are you?” Harry prompts, switching his balance onto his other foot. He scratches the side of his thigh, Niall replies, “Yeah, think, yeah.” Harry nods, accepting it not entirely sure if he’s ready to forgo his previous qualms. They settle back into routine work going over what they’ll be doing today, thinking they want to take care of the distant shots since Niall isn’t most comfortable with having a camera on him, “Could hit the green.”

 

Harry loves a round of golf, but he isn’t sure where the heck in New York would they find an adequate golf course that wouldn’t require a good amount of travelling, “Dunno, rather prefer a football field. Or like, something you’d fit in where.”

 

“The crutch doesn’t show?” Niall asks, a little hesitant. Harry offers him a frown, this is only to make it easier on him, “Could go into the city?” Niall shakes his head, his forehead wrinkling into a stack of pancakes that Harry wouldn’t mind picking apart - wait. “I think that is too dangerous especially with how I am still not very mobile,” he excuses, but Harry knows he’s only trying to take the easy way out. “We’re going, I will take care of you,” he gets up offering a hand and Niall stares at it for a long minute - biting his nails to the quick, and then agrees. 

 

They leave the villas around 9am, early enough to beat the traffic into the city since mostly everyone is already there, the highway clear with a tail end slacker trying to get to work on time. Niall is sitting in the passenger seat with his legs stretched out and hand on his bad knee, trying to keep it still and not shaky from the bumpy road, whistling under his breath. They aren’t talking which isn’t something Harry’s quite familiar to, needling silence pricking at his mouth until -

 

“Sooooooo, what do you like other than footie?” He asks. The questions is entirely stupid, but he was tired of listening to the tune of a song he doesn’t know about, “Uh, like music quite a bit. Play the guitar.” Okay, that is a good start, he can go from there, “Wonderwall, all you got then?”   
  


Harry remembers seeing a guitar case laying pliant against the window sill, hadn’t thought much about it, when he was in Niall’s room. Niall chuckles, it’s the first time he’s laughed in Harry’s presence - he quite likes it on him, “I’ll have you know I’m little off an expert. Could probably teach you a thing or two.”

 

Harry feigns mock offense, his eyebrows shooting up to his his hairline - albeit how receding it may be, he should really work on ordering the coconut oil from Bali he’d heard from Annie -, “What makes you say I’m not multitalented? Photography and writing are just two of the many talents under my belt.” Niall raises a brow, in challenge, and duck his head before saying just above a whisper, “Navigation might not be one then.”

 

Harry is about to ask ‘what’ when he looks back on the road, the highway stretching long under the wheels of his tires, the tar smoother now than from the crater-filled holes on the inner roads, and realizes, “Oh, fucking hell.” He quickly reaches over to the map in the compartment box and pulls it open, one hand on the steering, “Hey could you like pull out the map from in there? Think I missed my exit on Mansfield Manor.” Niall stares at him in disbelief, saying matter-of-factly,“You have a phone in your cup holder.” Harry blinks at him, then. “I know? Could you get a move on with the map? I need to know how to get to the city.”

 

They don’t get to the city. Niall does walk back laughing, loud enough that it carries over to the tall trees surrounding the villa’s, loud enough for Harry to feel warm even though the chilly draft is picking up outside. Doesn’t make much sense, but they’re one step closer to getting to where they should - nowhere near finishing his job. And those qualms? Well, he's working on that. 

 

\--

Niall falls headfirst on the plush bed, the comforters wrinkling under his solid weight, and then there is ringing, the phone tucked into his back pocket sending vibrations down his body, he yanks it out sliding the screen and putting to his ear, “Hello.”

 

His voice comes out more sing-songy than expected, he’s just had a good day, hadn’t been out for a while now and today was good. Yeah. A thin voice comes in, “Hey, babe.” Niall thinks, she doesn’t have to. Call out of feeling obligated when they both know the relationship was walking to it’s funeral the night she’d stormed off before the match back in March - it’s not like he was picking football over her; he’d been fair, trying to make her life easier. Of course the same night he’d gone and gotten hospitalized. No one leaves a crippled man. 

 

“Barbara,” he is breathing, small puffs on top of the sheet listening to chatter on about her new colleagues for the Vanity Fair shoot, his mouth tickling the errant thread poking out, “What are we doing?” She’s moving he can tell cause he can no longer hear other people, just her, and her steady breathing. He remembers when he’d kissed her; fireworks; butterflies; magic. All that. Now he doesn’t even recall the taste of her lips, the memory ebbed away thanks to copious amounts of medicine. “I’m calling to check in, miss you,” and he wishes she sounded earnest. “Do you really?” He finds himself saying. Because right now - he doesn’t, no. 

 

\--

Eleanor drops the bag into the boot of the trunk before rounding towards the passenger seat, opening the door and saying, “So, what are we doing?”

 

Harry finishes off the email he’d been typing Evanna about how they need to talk about  _ them  _ having put it off for long enough, signing it with his signature ‘ _ All the love, H.’ _ and turns to face his friend who looks rather stunning today, “what has you dressed all nice? We’re going for a photoshoot not a night out.” She swats his arm, rolling her eyes, “Think I can look nice for myself. Once in awhile.”

 

Harry starts the engine the car coming to life with a growl that is eerily similar to the T-Rex’s rawr in Jurassic World which they’d been watching last night, “Mhm, I’d say yes! Woman power!” He says in his poor impression of a brooklyn accent. “But, I’ve known you for the longest time and know well enough that you never dress up for shoots. Never.” Her theory is the person being photographed should feel most beautiful, look most beautiful. Harry finds it endearing.

 

Eleanor pushes her feet up to the dashboard before clicking her belt buckle in, muttering a small, “I heard another footie player is going to be there, today or tomorrow. Am not sure.”

 

Harry rakes his brain trying to remember which one his friend is fond of, then it clicks. “The one who looks like he belongs in a punk band? Lead singer to Mayday Parade he could be.” She digs her elbows into the armrest, cupping her chin in her palms, sheepishly says, “A very cute pop punk singer.”   
  


The drive to the center isn’t too long, though they do stop at the local donut shop for fritters and fresh coffee, and once Harry’s scarfed down bother the apple and blueberry one - the apple being better cause it had apple chunks and was pleasantly warm - they pull into the parking lot. They unload their equipment, stack the makeup crates with some of the camera equipments; tripods, light stands, umbrella heads, ankle weights, cables and reflectors. Once they’re done, Eleanor asks, her hands on her hips with her sunglasses pushed up to hold up her hair, “Tell me what master plan you’re cooking?”

 

Harry grins, adjusting his lens, “You’ll see.”

 

Niall’s room is illuminated today, the lights aren’t off and everything is arranged to make most space, and Niall himself is nowhere to be seen. Harry pushes the crate in, calling out, “Niall?” Meanwhile Eleanor starts sorting out the makeup from the studio equipment. The door to the en suite bathroom opens and Niall steps out in a skimpy towel - oh. 

 

Have you ever seen paint swirl in water? Especially when the color red just spreads and the entire container is blushing - alright that doesn’t make much sense, but Niall is pale, his skin a sheet of white and now it is pinking up under the attention and - 

 

“I, I didn’t know - I should change,” he’s moving to the closet, limping since his brace is not on his knee and he doesn’t have his crutches. Harry hurries to say, “No, wait, this is perfect!” 

 

Niall says, “Excuse me?” The same time Eleanor says, “What?” And then rushes to Niall’s side, standing in front of the closet like a guard protecting the national treasure or somewhat,  “We’re trying a new approach to this shoot, Boudoir if you call it.” Eleanor splutters into a cackle and Niall knits his brows together, confused, “i don’t know what that is.”

 

Eleanor composes herself after Harry’s rolled his eyes at her, brushing lint off her skirt, “It is something that requires you to stay just as you are, now. Perhaps some sexy briefs?” Niall turns an even darker shade of red, a step up from rosy, “Is it necessary?” 

 

“Crucial,” Harry replies.

 

\--

Niall lays flat on his stomach, the ends of his briefs riding up and Harry had told him to be sultry - inviting -, but he’s not sure Niall knows how that works, “This good?”   
  


Harry looks up from the camera screen, previous shots already stored to memory, “I won’t you to poise your body in a way that says  yearning, a look of abandon in your eyes, you quite honestly look constipated right now, Niall.”

 

Niall pulls up frowning and Harry wants to say he’s been lying all this time and these shots are shit and he was just messing about, but he’s having far too much fun with this. So far they’ve gotten a shot of him draped over the headboard of the bed, bent over the sink,  his back arched into the grand windows, and a shot of him ‘seductively’ eating a banana - Harry ate the rest of it while Niall looked over disapprovingly. 

 

There is a beat of silence, Eleanor coming back in with two bottles of water for herself and Harry, and they take a five minute pause. Niall’s knee is cramping up from what it looks like. He keeps rubbing at it. Eleanor is talking about how they should do a proper setup tomorrow, being as quiet as possible, when Harry catches a glimpse of it. Niall’s sat on the backless settee his bad knee pulled up, his other leg stretched out, with a finger tracing down his scar, his back muscles flexing, protruding in a way he could graze the expanse of his back giving way to ridges, and curves. The curled position, his leaning inward should give off a scared, a broken vibe, except it is a rock hard shell resilient despite the palpable scars. Harry takes a picture, makes sure the freckles marking his skin like constellations make an appearance in the photo. 

 

It's been exactly two weeks since he's flown over to New York, it's been 12 days since his argument with Niall, 6 since the attempt to venture into the city, and after the fluttering hours they've spent in one another’s company not once has Harry noticed him to be broken - tainted, a crumbling ship that the media has described. He's worked in it for the longest time, knows how they know to target people’s insecurities, but right now Harry can't even list off one reason why anyone would think Niall’s ruined. And the picture, it reads more than he can, more than he knows - 

 

Niall doesn’t notice Harry’s taken a picture, jerks his head up ready for the next set of photos, and asks, “What else?” 

 

Harry puts on a serious tone, not letting his voice waver, “I want you to cup your junk and yell your football idol’s name.” 

 

Niall is horrified, “What?” And both Eleanor and Harry dispel into laughter, tears pooling their eyes, “I can’t believe you fucking went along with the entire shoot! I was joking.”

 

Niall turns that beet red that in particular looks endearing on him, “Fuck you, arseholes!” If a pillow fight ensues after, Harry’s not complaining. 

\--

 

_ 16th of September, 2013 _

 

Louis nudges Niall over by digging his bony knees into Niall’s bum, effective yet annoying. Begrudgingly, Niall moves forward ignoring the way Louis drapes his arm over his torso, or the way his breathing moves the ends of Niall’s hair tickling his ears, or how he smells of Yorkshire tea and cigarettes. He's all things Niall loves so he presses into his chest, never being one to be a little spoon, but if Louis’ insistent - or, sleepy he goes along. 

 

There's a period right before dawn when his eyes flutter open soaking in the pastel shades coloring the sky outside, and then he's slipping into deep sleep. The second time Niall wakes up is to his front door cracking open not giving him enough time to ruminate over the last images of his dreams, he flutters his eyes open, his line of sight  meeting the curtains drawn together, and he overhears a small gasp, “ _ Shit.” _

 

With a violent surge he jolts up only catching the trail end of Harry’s boots clacking out of the room, the limp arm around him falling to his waist, he unspools himself from the grasps and the hoard of sheets. Reaches over to grab his crutches, shoving them under his pits and finding his balance, and treads out of the room with quiet steps. 

 

Harry’s lounging on the sofa in the living room - common room to say. His head in Eleanor’s lap. Niall finds himself apologizing for no reason whatsoever, “I'm sorry.” 

 

Both look up at him, owlishly. Eleanor straightens up gesturing at the seat in front of her which he gladly takes, “My mate came over last night. Got in pretty late so we slept in.” 

 

Harry turns over, his back now facing Niall, the words coming out muffled due to way his mouth ghosts the cushioned sofa, “Pretty close for mates you lot.” 

 

Eleanor shushes him giving Niall a blinding smile trying to cover up Harry’s apparent disapproval, weaving her slender fingers through his curly hair, the brown threading her fingers like vines. Niall can't stomach the uneasiness wrapping coils on his insides, “he's not had brekkie yet. A bit snippy.” 

 

Niall nods, moving to get up, “you can come in. I'm ready to give an interview or talk about the proper shoot - whatever, you'd had planned.”

 

Eleanor prods Harry until he gives in and gets up, moping only for a moment and then putting on his flashing smile, walking side by side to Niall. They enter the room which is now brightly lit up thanks to the lamps being turned on, Louis sitting up in the bed, he yawns before saying, “The bed got cold.” 

 

“Whiny baby, you are,” Niall guffaws, hopping over and ruffling at his hair. Arms wrapping his waist with a press of a cheek to his belly - Louis shirtless, and scruffy. “Niall, your weird friends are staring,” he's not even looking, yet he knows. Niall looks over his shoulder throwing a grin their way which Eleanor returns, Harry just looking uncomfortable in his own skin, “Meet my mate, Tommo. Otherwise known as Louis Tomlinson.” 

 

They have waffles for breakfast cause they are Louis’ favorite, drenched in maple syrup along with a Cuppa, and fresh fruit for Harry. The boy has a unique taste palate - interesting in edibles like kale, and bullet coffees. Niall has learned it after they'd disposed themselves after the tedious yet very much fake photoshoot and resorted to playing a quick game of scrabble. 

 

Harry stabs his strawberry rather harshly not meeting Niall’s eyes, Eleanor herself looking solemn, and there is this awkward silence. Niall tips his head forward, soaking his last bite into the syrup and taking a bite, when Louis says, “We should pull tonight.” The comment is passive, thoughtless, but Harry’s choking on his cantaloupe. “Excuse?” 

 

Louis eyes him, “You know? Like look for a good lay for tonight?” Eleanor washes down her own waffle with heavy gulps of water, Niall pinching Louis’ knee to warn him - hoping he'd stop being crude. He just bounces his leg, and Harry is answering, “I know what pulling is. But isn't that a little forward seeing as your boyfriend is sitting right next to you?” 

 

Louis cackles. Niall stops the little laugh by putting the back of his hand over his mouth, and Eleanor asks, “What's so funny?” 

 

“I'm not, we’re not,” Louis is trying, and Niall finishes, “Best mates. Nothing like, that. No.” Louis flattens his palms over his knees, head hanging in between, “Oh, God, Niall here is recently single. And very much not trying to get with me.” Eleanor loosens up, her shoulder slumping with her back settling into the chair she’s sitting in, Harry is looking over her and mirrors her actions.  _ Oh _ . Niall clears his throat, dragging the dredges of maple syrup with his bite, saying, “But Tommo here is a fan of leggy brunettes, aren’t you?”

 

Louis’ grumbles incoherently, and Eleanor turns a shade of pink, and Harry lets out a hearty cackle. 

 

\--

 

The club is packed. People at every turn, so many that it takes Harry a solid ten minutes to get out of the dance floor towards the bar, tripping over the step that leads up to it. The fall isn’t too hard especially when Niall is sitting there laughing at him, ignoring the bumping base in back. Harry gets on his feet waving down the bartender, Louis is somewhere in the back flanked by pretty girls, one’s that had flocked to his side as soon as they entered, clearly Harry had to cheer El up so he dragged her away to dance. 

 

“Helloooo,” he sings, plopping his bum on the stool next to Niall’s, the bartender walking over as he readies his order - a margarita for now, he decides, Once he’s done ordering he’s turning to face Niall, “So, what has you sulking, superstar?” Harry pokes at his cheek. They’re on the road to friendship, if not friends, so this should be good, it should. Earlier he’d been annoyed on Eleanor’s behalf, but clearly that was nothing less than a misunderstanding. 

 

Niall shrugs, taking another sip of his beer, running a hand through his hair. It looks sticky, wet, from sweat most likely even though he’s not moved since he got to the club. In his defense it is fairly warm in the building. Harry’s own silk shirt clings to his chest, and he’s sure his hair is a frizzy mess from all the humidity, but so far he’s not been turned down a chance to dance with anyone. The bartender, Dean his name tag reads, slides his drink to him a bendy straw in place, he sips the cool liquid, it glides down his throat leaving behind a fruity taste on his buds. A few sips later he’s getting up, his footing wonky, and clasping a hand around Niall’s wrist, “Come, let’s dance.”

 

Niall sports an incredulous look, taking another swig of his own drink before putting it back down onto the bar countertop, “I’ll have you know I am a shit dancer with gammy knees.” Harry laughs, loud. “Babe, think that much even I know.” With a firm hand in Niall’s he pulls him to the elevated dance floor, neon lights shining over them like laser beams, the press of strangers aligned to their backs. Harry brings Niall’s hands to his hips, they are big, sturdy the way the grip into his skin, and pushes forward, their chests flush with his own arms slinked around Niall’s neck. They sway to the beat of the music, the haze of alcohol washing over them, and he tries to repress the words sitting in his inbox; the email marked read saying  _ ‘i’m not looking for what you are.’ _ Harry could claim he’s not heartbroken; Harry doesn’t know if that’d be fair. 

 

The room starts closing in then, his thoughts wiring together emotions he’s been trying to avoid all evening, alright. Maybe, he wasn’t necessarily in a strop over Eleanor’s behalf. He unmoors himself from Niall’s arms and starts weaving through the crowd his name being called in his wake, growing distant with each step, or, it could be the pounding music, he’s not too sure. Once he’s out of the hoard of sticky bodies clinging to one another like it means something, like if they stood their licking into that stranger’s mouth that had smelt nice, they’d feel better - less lonely. They won’t. He’s been on the other end, he’s never known the other side though. The coin has yet to flip on him. 

 

From the corner of his eyes he can see Eleanor leaning on the pillar that is supporting the beam of the entire building, twisting his errant curl that has fallen out of her bun like a nervous twitch, nodding her head to whatever Louis’ telling her. There is a future there he can see without digging too  _ ‘you and I are just supposed to be fun, no? It was always like that.’ _

 

The cold air outside bites his skin reminding him of the coming of winter, his flesh prickling goosebumps with how the draft of wind seeps into his clothes, into his bones rattling them, the cab he hails coming to a stop in front of the curb stop he feels fingers depress into his elbow. They both get in, Niall narrating the address to their detention, Harry being left to his own devices with his head tipped on the window closing his eyes to the lull of the engine. They get out at a beach, every other light on the deck on, and Niall and him walk in sync, the other a smidge slower, until they’re at the bottom, their toes meeting the coarse white sand. Harry crouches using his finger to draw patterns and with much struggle Niall seats himself behind him. 

 

“Imagine you’re in grade school and did a group project with your mates, once you’ve turned it in and it has been graded, and you’ve gotten an A, you become the kid who knows what he’s doing, when in fact you are not, you just got lucky, but others don’t know and they have expectations. My one hit got overexposed, it put a trademark on me, I am a product of what people have seen,” his voice echoes over the rolling waves, right now the beach is totally empty and Niall’s sharing. 

 

\--

Niall continues, trying his best to keep his eyes on the way the waves curve to meet the ground, then shy away at the contact, “None of my footie mates checked on me. Save Tommo of course. But that’s who he is, sworn brothers or something he calls us. Didn’t mind that much seeing that Zayn and Louis were there; Liam in spirit, of course.”

 

There is a horseshoe crab dragging itself across the dense sand, the shell reflecting the faint moonlight the waxing gibbous is dappling over it, over them. Seaweed latched onto its scrawny legs lugging with each displacement, Niall wants to reach across and help it, but then remembers how one had crawled over Louis once and indefinitely scarred him. Barbara had laughed instead of helping the poor lad, “My girlfriend and I broke up.”

 

Harry groans, falling face front into the san, spreading his legs out like a starfish, “Same, mate, same. Though think we weren’t even dating.” The laugh that follows after is hollow, bitter, so Niall says, “She probably found out your furry kink.”

 

Harry spits out the sand in his mouth, “How did you know?” 

 

\--

Harry stares at the computer screen, the cursor blinking tauntingly as he tries to catch the words that seem to be pouring faster than he’s able to put them down, makes him think of that episode of spongebob where he goes jellyfishing and there are so many yet he’s not able to capture a single one. He closes his eyes, calming his breathing, and sees it, the turf getting torn under cleats, getting weary;  _ the grass is always greener - on the other side with Niall Horan. _

He’s typed away most of the interview, not stopping to correct any grammatical errors because he’s too busy typing away all the itty gritty details, feels like he needs to do justice to someone’s who’s been marred by harsh words since the beginning. So, he writes, until his wrist ache and he has to stretch out his fingers and palms to loosen them. He’s finishing the last paragraph when the door to his hotel room clicks open, the sound of heels filling in the silent space he’d created - he writes without any music or any sounds, the click-clack of his keyboard creating a reassuring momentum. 

 

He whistles, taking in Eleanor’s tired state, “Look what the cat dragged in.” She groans, even her stomach grumbling in plea of food, “I am knackered. And famished.” 

 

Harry tamps down his lips, “Mhm, Mr. Tomlinson, didn’t feed you?” Another groan comes out of his dear friend, she turns over the bed and holds up her on the heel of her palm, “Could you believe he was a perfect gentlemen? We talked all night, H.  _ All night. _ Not so much so a kiss.”

 

“Damn, did you already tell him about your defect-” and Eleanor hurls a shoe at him and instinctively he ducks, closing his laptop screen too, another one follows after. That one does hit his head. 

 

\--

Harry doesn’t mean to overhear the conversation, but he’s leaving later today and he’d just wanted to say goodbye to Niall beforehand, before they pack away all the stuff that is lying about the villa since they arrived 3 weeks ago. Funny how quickly time passes and they are well into finishing up the cover issue, a few touch-ups which they’ll get to once they go back and then they have to figure out whether the story will be segmented right in the middle of the issue or. They are saving it for after the holiday season, early January next year or, maybe, even after depending on Evanna’s mood. They’re also supposedly keeping their ears open for any budding rumors about Niall returning to the Club. 

 

Harry can only hear Louis, can see his back drawn tight, the top of his shoulders tense from the subject of the conversation he assumes, and then the lad is saying, “You haven’t followed through with a single recovery routine that Liam had sent over? Why are you sabotaging your own career?”

 

\--

Niall breathes in deeply filling his lungs until it is unbearable holding it in, “What career?”

 

Louis’ livid, his jaw set as he seethes out a, “For fucks sake, Niall.” He throws up his hands  in defeat and he should be afraid his friend would leave, would stop talking to him, but they’re too codependent and Niall’s been spoiled. A twinge in his chest pulls him back when he sees the red thread tied around Louis’ wrist, the same thread they’d tied to each other when they started at Barcelona, and Niall aches to get back on the field, breath in the dewy muddy air, feel the coarse turf under the sole of his shoes. Niall can’t bear to not see a future where the tip of his shoes don’t collide against later rubber of a football. But. 

 

Habitually, he looks down at the scar running down his knees, “It might be too late for one.” Who is he to think he stands a chance to live up to the expectation been set forth by a part of him that he doesn’t even remember being. Who is he to let his friend believe they’d run across the same field that blankets their dreams as one? 

 

Louis grumbles, because he won’t tell him he’s wrong, his words exhausted with all his past attempts. Instead he grabs his hoodie lying on the arm of the settee and stomps out of the room. There is spiraling silence that envelops him, and then.

 

Harry knocks on the door, tentative. Entering when Niall tells him it is okay to, he’s rubbing at his elbows, and his hair is pulled into a bun unlike how it usually is flailing around. He’s wearing a backpack, and boots, and he’s ready to leave, Niall reckons. “What’s up?” 

 

Harry puts up a finger slinking his bag to the front, it hanging off his shoulder loosely, “I got you something at a thrift store I passed by yesterday.” Niall waits patiently for him to dig through what looks like balled up clothes, books, and the glass of the camera lens shining through the mess, and tugs out a baseball tee with yellow sleeves, the word ‘E A G L E S’ spread across the chest in block letters with a ‘75’ written under it in black. “For you,” he hands it to Niall, the cotton of the shirt soft in his hands and he can tell Harry gave it a wash before bringing it over - the shirt smelling like lemons. 

 

“You didn’t have to,” Niall is saying, fingers tracing the letters, “I didn’t get you anything.” Harry shrugs, nonchalant. “I made a friend, didn’t I?” And it would be not them if he didn’t tease, “Who said I’m your friend?”

 

Harry laughs, “Fuck you.” Words lacking bitterness, and he is reeling Niall in for a hug, which Niall returns wrapping his arms over his shoulders awkwardly due to the bag, Harry’s own fingers entwined around Niall’s waist, and he whispers, “Football misses you.” Niall already misses Harry. 

 


	2. London

_2nd of December, 2013_

 

December is a mixture of christmas light strung outside stores and the sky opening up to an array of gloomy shades, but nothing, absolutely nothing, brings down the so-called christmas spirit. Shoppers skip store to store purchasing last minute gifts in a hurry, clearly not aware that is still quite early on and they could wait till last minute like he always does. Alright, this is the first year he’s had to and it is only because he’s not exactly looking forward to spending the hols by himself. Gemma is preparing to go on vacation with her boyfriend and his parents have tagged along - some couples getaway they had said.

 

“Could be worse,” Eleanor pouts, swiveling in her rolling chair, dragging it to Harry’s cubicle where he’s sitting face-planted into the desk. “You could be waiting on your maybe-boyfriend to confirm your holiday plans.” Harry picks his head, a frown in place with eyebrows knitted together, _“_ Yes, of course, my name is Eleanor Calder and my life is so sad because my rich ass boyfriend can’t show up for our dinner plans. I guess I’ll just have to lounge sexily in the silk robe he sent me.”

 

Eleanor snorts, his hip bumping into the desk as she pushes him into it, “Shut up. I can’t believe I told you about that.” Harry shrugs, shrinking a little when he sees Evanna walks past them to where Dave is sitting furiously typing away on his desk top - if he doesn’t quit it with it soon then he’s most definitely going to have carpal tunnel. Poor Dave. Gone too soon.

 

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Eleanor scratches at his chest just in between his pecks where his necklaces sit, it’s soothing. He straightens his shoulders putting up a bravado, “Please, I’ve been over her.” The corners to her lips are tugging down and Harry wants her to know, he is, really. But, there is something else that he’s keeping to himself. Mostly that it isn’t her that he misses, it is just what came along with being with her, and that is harder to admit out loud than he’d like.

 

They finish up at work around 7 which is perfect  because they ordered chinese takeout around 6:50 for pickup and it takes 20 minutes to take the tube from Hanover Square to Aldgate, which gives the restaurant enough time to ready their food. The chinese place is a street down from Harry and El’s place and Grimmy should be over by 7:45 which gives them a solid night in and enough time to spare for a movie too. So, they do just that. Walk down Liverpool Street after picking up their food and head over to their flat. Changing into comfy clothes, Eleanor teasing Harry with a threat to wear the robe, but eventually settles on her flannel pj’s.

 

Grimmy shows up just when they’d expected bearing a bottle of chardonnay wine and chocolate truffles, Harry smacks a sloppy kiss to his cheek and lets him in. They settle on the couch, a smidge tight for three people, but they’ve been doing this long enough so they manage. Eleanor uncorks the bottle, Harry brings the bowl of sea salt chips to his laps since he’s in the middle and Grimmy holds the box of truffles, the opening credits rolling in on the TV screen.

 

The movie is halfway thru intermission when Harry says it, “I am going to die alone.” Grimmy laughs into his shoulder as Eleanor fishes into the bowl for a chip, popping it into her mouth and typing away on her phone - she’s been at it all night. “Little dramatic there, innit?”

 

Harry slumps further into the cushioned couch, his chin slipping under the neck of his shirt, “Dunno, I just.” He doesn’t complete his thought because he can’t possibly articulate what he is feeling, how he’s been in this mood for the longest time, and it’s like a leech drinking away his blood leaving him drained. “We should go to a concert. Get some air, meet some new people, yeah? That’s what people do in their 20’s, right? There is one next saturday I could totally snag us some tix off of me mate Greg.”

 

Harry agrees, nodding solemnly and turning his attention back to the screen. They figure Eleanor would go with even though she’s barely paying any attention.

 

_13th of December, 2013_

 

The night of the concert is tragic from the very start. He wakes up to at least 5 emails from Evanna about how she needs a completed draft for the soccer write-up he did in September by Monday morning on her desk - she’s been a hardass since they went through with an official unofficial break up- does it even count if they weren’t even committed to one another in the first place? - and then, he misses  his yoga appointment cause he falls back asleep after reading through the stressful emails, after which his entire schedule is thrown off.

 

He’s running late to meet Gemma at The Rajasthan II when Evanna’s call comes in, clearly the intimidating emails weren’t enough, “I want you to have the entire section glossed up with proper layout because we will be sending it to the publisher.”

 

He sits in his seat opposite to his sister who’s already skimming the menu, he mouths a sorry which she waves off, understanding as always, as he listens onto Evanna screaming into his eardrum. Might have to make an appointment with an ENT specialist as well. Once she’s done and signed off with her signature ‘ _goodbye darling’_ \- more eerie than comforting - he parts his attentions to his sister.

 

“Cruella Deville hounding your arse again?” She snickers sipping water out of the bottle sitting in front of her, before he can dive into a series of complaints the waiter is coming over to note down their order. He goes with a classic Nawabi chicken tikka and garlic nan whereas Gemma orders a dish of chicken curry with brown rice.

 

The waiter leaves with a smile on his face longingly staring at the way Gemma’s hair falls past her shoulder, Harry’s too tired to activate big brother mode so he lets it slide; he’s not older, but, you know. “Yes,” he groans, picking at the salad sitting at the table, “Ever since, we y’know.” Vaguely gesturing trying to leave out the crude details, “She’s turned into a super villain, always making sure I’m worked to the last drop, wrung me out like I’m a dish towel!”

 

“That doesn’t make sense, bub,” Gemma laughs, soft. “But I hope she lays off, I wouldn’t want you to start hating the work environment because of the woman.”

 

“No, I think it only serves as a catalyst for me to work even harder, be better, you know?” And she does, Harry can tell. She always gets what he is trying to say even if he doesn’t finish explaining or is too confused to understand himself, maybe, it helps that they have always been each other’s support system since they were young and Anne, their mother, had to go through a divorce. Forced to grow old on their own terms, they were.

 

The concert is held at the O2 arena which is packed by the time Harry gets there, running late once again cause while ironing his silk shirt and talking to Pixie he didn’t look to change the setting from cotton to silk causing him to burn it, he resorted to wearing an old rolling stones tee he’d got at a pawn shop four summers ago. It is his favorite tee. Eleanor is wearing a boho printed black and white jumper, Nick a classy sweater, and Pixie a sequined gold top with a pencil skirt and in comparison he is terribly underdressed, but he’s not too bothered because the music is great and he’s _vibing_.

 

Matt Healy comes to the center of the stage going over his speech, how for the next song they should pair up, and Harry’s to reach Eleanor but. She’s talking to someone else and their back is to him so he can’t exactly see who, and then they’re turning and Harry catches sight of Louis’ fringe.

 

“Hey mate!” He cheers, coming over and pulling Harry into a hug like they’re long lost best friends. Since the night at the club ages ago he hasn’t really hung out with him, mostly cause he’s been too busy with training, and the only time he’s over they go to El’s room. Not that Harry’s complaining he’d just like the opportunity to get to know the guy who’s supposedly have had his friend grinning ear to ear.

 

“What’s up?” Harry tries being casual, budging into Grimmy’s space to make room for Louis, but then he sees him. Standing near the staircase of the vip box, hands shoved into the pocket, shoulders awkwardly leaning inwards. Niall’s talking to a girl, very pretty, very poised from the looks of it. And, she’s pushing herself on her tip-toes which impels him to turn away, but even from his peripheral he sees her placing a swift kiss to his cheek. And she’s gone?  


Louis lets out a loud cackle, the opening chords of fallingforyou drowning behind them, “I can’t believe she stood him up!” Harry looks between him, and then over to Niall who’s now looking down at the stairs, but he’s smiling, and then another person comes through. An attractive young man about their age curls his fingers around the nape of Niall’s neck, reeling him in and nuzzling his nose into his temples. The arena is fairly dark save the neon lights on the stage that are illuminating the stands, and from just that Harry can see the way Niall’s lips are turning upwards into a full smile.

 

They totter over to their side, nodding a hello at everyone, but mostly Eleanor cause she’s the common friend between all of them, and when they near the railing Harry recognizes the man. It is Zayn Malik, the kid with that new song out, and Niall has his head on his shoulder swaying side to side as Matt Healy croons away the rather cloying lyrics. Harry shifts himself to face the stage where the drummer beats the cymbal with his sticks, and the song segues into another, taking a swig out of his beer bottle.

 

\--

Niall laughs into Zayn’s shoulder because Louis is giving Zayn shit again about how Liam missed yet another night out because he’s ‘too’ busy with what they are all a little lost on. Though to be fair he has a promotion on line which is why he’s been busy kissing the assistant physio’s asses. Zayn is rubbing his circles into the small of Niall’s back and the concert has just to come to an end, the people on the floor filtering out in a neat queue, dancing along to last of the concert high. The air is damp, but not stuffy, so they stand there while Louis goes on complaining, hand entwined with Eleanor. Oh, Eleanor.

 

Niall picks his head up and stretches it a little to see over Louis to the other side, spotting the back of Harry’s head, while Zayn tries to reason with Louis yet again, “Listen, man, he was tired.” Niall slips out of his hold,  rounding Eleanor and walking over to where Harry is. He doesn’t mean to but when he places his hand on Harry’s shoulder he jerks forward, frightened. “I’m sorry,” Niall apologizes immediately, and Harry turns to get a good look at who it is.  “Hey,” he breathes, dropping his conversation, with Nick Grimshaw from what Niall can tell, on a whim.

 

They stand there teetering back and forth on the balls of their feet, until Niall says, “Hey again.”

 

Harry is easy to talk to outside the whole work. No, more pressuring environment that came along with the interview, he’s also quite a lightweight, singing 90’s hits once they’re walking in the parking lot at the top of his lungs, no worry in the world. Eleanor is on Louis’ back yelling at Harry to not trip over the rock and Zayn is dragging behind laughing into the phone talking to Liam, and Niall feels 19 again, young and ready to conquer the world. He hasn’t felt this young in -

 

Harry trips. Face plants himself into the rock hard cement of the pavement. Niall hurries towards him as Eleanor lets out a gasp, Louis laughing instead of moving to help, Grimmy and Pixie already having left because of other commitments, “Are you okay?”

 

Harry lifts himself up, hands cupped over his mouth, and nods, his voice coming out muffled, “‘S great!” Eleanor runs to their side, worried about her friend, “H, you’re dripping blood.” But Harry doesn’t move his hand, shaking his head like a child refusing to eat his greens, and then Niall clasps his fingers around the soft pulse of his wrist, encouraging him to show how much damage has been done. Eventually, he listens, giving in and letting his hands fall to his sides.

 

“It’s terrible, don’t look,” and Niall wants to cup his cheeks and smack a kiss to them. But Eleanor’s a lot more reassuring, Louis in the back trying to stifle a laugh, “Aw, bebe, you busted your lip. Lemme take you home and clean you up, yeah?”

 

That piques Louis’ interest as he pushes past Niall to Harry’s side examining his busted lip, he tilts his chin and Harry winces in pain, and claims, “A dab of peroxide and some ice would do.” Harry nods, thoughtfully, and Louis bops his hip to Niall’s, “You can take care of it, yeah? Sober enough to drive Harry back?”

 

Niall doesn’t even have time to process and Harry’s being pushed into his arm, the lanky boy hovering in front of him like he’s out of place. Louis is grinning pulling at Eleanor’s hand, mouthing something that doesn’t need much deciphering and Niall says, “alright ok.” By the time they’ve settled that Harry and Niall are going together to Niall’s place, Zayn is coming over, turning off his phone and saying, “What the fuck happened to you?”  


Niall’s pretty sure they haven’t even been introduced to one another.

 

\--

Harry sobers up by the time they get to Niall’s flat, the one near Primrose, the one with tall windows that probably lets sunlight stream in during early summer, the one with potted cacti sitting near the window panes, the one with the granite island one on which he sits on while Niall hurries about like a headless chicken looking for first aid. He finds it in the top cabinet over the refrigerator, a box filled with dinosaur band-aids, Harry giggles at that.

 

Niall wrings out a towel with water and dabs harry’s lip, he moves back in pain, but Niall brings a firm hand to his arm, “Just a little more. Sorry.” Every touch is unbearably gentle and Harry wants to roll himself up like a sleeping bag and tuck himself into Niall.

 

He's right, it only takes a few more minutes for Niall to properly clean him up, putting the band aid on the cut right above his left cheek leaving him with an ice pack to nurse his busted lip. Harry watches him move to put back the kit, “are dinosaurs your favorite?”

 

He shrugs, opening the door to the fridge and taking out a jug of orange juice, bringing two glasses from the dish strainer to the island. His hands are quite big, Harry notices. He pours them both a glass, “was at the rehab for so long that caught up on some reading. Been learning about the cretaceous period recently.”

 

Harry closes his eyes remembering the books stacked on Niall’s side table at the villa, the one he’d clutched onto when they'd fought, “I'm fond of whales. They're my patronus.”

s

 

“You don't say?”

 

“Cachalots can dive deepest and even get into fights with squids, did you know?” Niall didn't, and he doesn't interrupt Harry like his friends do when stories lose directions or when he pauses to collect his thoughts. Niall just places his elbow on the island, cupping his chin, and _listens._

 

\--

The therapy with the clinic Liam had recommended at Dorset street goes quite well. They know about his high profile status yet treat him equally to other patients which he sincerely appreciates. The sessions are Monday to Friday, a personal physio coming in on the weekend to over routine exercises and by late December he's kicking about a ball.

 

They're at the park near his flat playing a round of footie, their rucksacks tossed to the side along with their water bottles. Louis corners him towards their makeshift goal, hesitantly skidding his feet to the side to steer the ball away from Niall, but for the first time in a long time Niall’s able to put up a decent defense, blocking louis’ foot with his own and running past him to score a goal.

 

“Fuck yeah,” he cheers, the sweat of his jersey clinging to his chest, his hair smattered across his forehead. If he didn't know Louis any better he'd think he let his son win but he didn't, there are a lot of things Louis Tomlinson is willing to do. Losing _isn’t_ one of them.

 

Louis runs to where Niall is engulfing him into a hug, their chests colliding and reverberating to their heavy breathing, “God, I've missed you.”

 

\--

_20th of December, 2013_

 

Eleanor decides she wants to host a mini-party at her and Harry’s flat for an early birthday for Louis and obviously Harry is dragged into the mess. Friday night they go to tracks to stack up in paper cups and paper plates, harry orders the cake from a bakery in north London having heard they make the best black Forest cake, and picks up flowers on his way back early Saturday morning when he's out running last minute errands. The party isn't supposed to be a grand affair only having invited the closest of their friends. It is also a surprise seeing as Louis thinks it's a night in with Thai and Lady and the Tramp. It is his and Eleanor's favorite movie. To make sure Louis doesn't show up in sweats, since that won't be too far-fetched to think, Harry calls Niall.

 

There is heavy breathing on the other end, a loud thud, “hey.”

 

Harry pinches his lower lip in between his thumb and forefinger, “Did I interrupt something? Could call back if you want to get back to, err.”

 

Niall laughs, heartily, “You arse I'm just going over my weekend rotation; Mark said I need to have 100 crunches down by this weekend.”

 

“Let me guess you broke a sweat at 15?”

 

Niall gasps, dramatically, and Harry can picture him on his hardwood floor with stretched out legs sweat dripping from his brow, makes Harry’s stomach curl at the thought. “Such little faith in me, Styles?”

 

Harry shrugs, but then remembers Niall can't see him, “Just making a sound observation.”

 

“Mhm, so since you clearly called to insult me is there something else to add?”

 

“Oh, Niall, don't be sad, I'm sure you'll catch up to the big boys.”

 

“And would that be you?”

 

“If you insist, love, surely I'm not one to turn down a compliment,” Niall lets out a cackle, one that must echo in the open space of his living room, Harry kind of wishes he was there to see it. Possibly capture it in one of them mason jars for himself to keep like some treasure, his precious. He needs to stop falling asleep to lord of the rings playing on tv.

 

He carries on, counting each breath Niall intakes, “Make sure Louis doesn't show up in sweats, yeah?”

 

“First you insult me then expect me to get Tommo to wear decent clothes. You ask too much of me, Styles.”

 

Harry bites down his lip, they've been doing this a lot lately, back and forth banter and it could be just that. A few laughs between mates, but. “Yeah? You love me anyway though.”

 

Harry waits on another snarky reply, a joke, instead. “Yeah, reckon I do,” Niall says, and Harry finds himself smiling, maybe, can even imagine Niall mirroring him all the way in his flat.

 

Eleanor hangs the birthday banner in the living room, wrapping the leftover string around the fairy lights they already had drawn up above the tapestry she'd gotten in Granada last year. There table has an assortment of chips, alcohol and paper cups and plates. The present she’d gotten - separated from the sexy lingerie she’d splurged on earlier on - sitting near the pantry where they will be stacking the rest of the present. Harry bought a signed t-shirt of the WHO he’d found at a thrift shop he frequents, thought Louis would appreciate it, and topped it off with a picture of himself in a tiara. ‘ _It is so he’ll always have me around lurking’_ , he had told Eleanor.

 

The guests roll in around eight, the gifts stacking into a tower, the crisps dwindling to crumbs until Harry runs to replace them, and once he’s replenished all their snacks, the front door opens, everyone ducking to surprise the birthday boy, himself hiding behind the coat rack. The door opens, Eleanor holding the part popper out undoing it and letting the confetti pop out, everyone chorusing in to a Happy Birthday. Louis’ completely caught off guard, grinning like a cheshire cat, ear to ear. Harry leans against the wall he’d been standing near, taking in his best friend wrapping her arms around her boyfriend's’ shoulders and it sparks something warm, coursing all the way through his body to his tips. Harry loves knowing she’s happy in love.

 

He’s turning to run to the kitchen and get another bowl of pringles when someone grabs his elbow, drawing him in, “Louis didn’t show up in sweats.” Harry bites the inside of his cheek, his stomach somersaulting at the way Niall is gently holding onto his elbow, and turns to saw, “I’m glad you accomplished a grade level task, Mr. Horan.”  


“Oh, so we’ve resorted to our surnames now?” Niall arches a brow, fashionably dressed in a sheer black button up and tight blue jeans that hug his arse nicely, not that Harry’s looking. No. “Last I recall you’ve been solely referring to me as Styles,” he tugs back his arm, arching away from Niall, his hair is is styled to the side, the ends now a brownish blonde. Harry wants to tell him to let it grow out to his natural color, but bites his tongue. “I suppose, “ Niall shrugs.

 

They sing Louis Happy Birthday when he cuts the cake which he proceeds to smear Eleanor’s face with it, dragging another scoop and attacking Zayn and Niall next. Harry doesn’t know how, but soon he’s being pulled into the mess, his face sticky with cream and his cheeks hurting from laughing so much. Part of him wonders if this is ok, right now, enjoying and sharing these moments with people he’s barely known. Or has, but in passing. But then Niall curls a hand around his waist, anchoring him into the group when it feels like he’s trying to untether himself from the knot around this ship, and his worrisome thoughts dissipate.

 

_20th of December - 25th of December_

 

Niall starts out with 10 pound weights, not putting too much strain on his back from the start since he hasn’t done this in a while, holding a dumbbell in each hand. He drops down into a lunge, making sure his knee doesn’t go over his toes, he’s starting with his good knee, but his bad one still makes a slight twinge and he hopes it is just forthcoming pain, an imperative warning so if you will. And then switches legs to the bad one, and it hurts a little, his chest staying up and shoulder staying down the spin, to ease it on himself he does glute extensions instead of tapping because that only hurts his knee.

 

He does the walking lunges for a max thirty minutes, his muscles achy from the contractions, and falls chest down on the gym floor heedful of his knee. The first few sessions are rough with Mark, the trainer assigned to him by Liam, but it starts getting better, especially after the first five days, only catching a break on christmas day itself.

 

He’d turned down the invitation Liam and Zayn had sent him to join their families for dinner, figuring he’d be fine on his own, after all it is not the first one he’s had to go through alone, but by the time noon rolls around he’s anxiously tapping away on his ipad finding something to occupy himself with. He considers going to the gym, but his body is already yelling at him, so he sinks back into his seat, clicking on home videos on YouTube where families are visiting Disneyland. He is halfway through the second video where a little girl is fighting her mum over which she disney princess she wants to take a picture - because of course not that they’re all the same like the mom had offhandedly said - when his phone buzzes on top of the countertop.

 

Boredom must be truly eating him away cause he doesn’t even wait for the second ring, dives in headfirst, “Niall, speaking!”

 

Harry makes a sound at the back of his throat, feigning offense, “I am mortified that you don’t have my number saved, is this how you’re trying to tell me you don’t care for this friendship?”

 

Niall scoffs, laughing through his nose, “What gave me away?”

 

“Listen, I called you because I bought a fresh batch of strawberries from Camden and made some homemade granola yesterday and I am dying to make pancakes and have no one to share with on this lovely Christmas morning, so I’d appreciate if you caught on instead of having me spell it out for you.”  


“I got a little lost between the spelling and the strawberries, “ Niall teases, sliding back his stool and walking towards his door. He shrugs on the chestnut brown shearling coat, slipping his arms through the sleeves, digging into the pockets to check if the keys are in there. They are. “Niall,” Harry drags on, and Niall can imagine him pouting sitting on the loveseat he has in his apartment, chewing on a granola bar, “Are you coming?”

 

“Already out of the door, love,” Niall hangs up.

 

Niall picks up a carton of apple juice because he loves some with his pancakes, hershey chocolate syrup because he knows Harry isn’t one to douse his food in artificial sugar, Niall on the other hand has no qualms about it. He makes a beeline to register, paying in cash, and hurrying out the automated doors. The drive to Harry’s isn’t too long, passes by listening to the static voice of Greg James going on about England needs to brush up their balling average this season in cricket. Niall can’t be arsed to hear anymore so he turns over to the next top 40 station, Zayn’s new single blasting through his speakers. He’s had the lyrics memorized since before it was released, smiling when he’d shown him the demo, singing along to the tune.

 

Niall knocks on the door to Harry’s flat once, his gravelly voice coming through the door, “Coming.” Niall rocks on the heels of his shoes, the door opening to Harry with a spoonful of sunbutter, a small bun at the top of his head, wispy curls tickling the skin of his neck. He’s wearing the same rolling stones t-shirt he’d been wearing at the concert with soft cotton tiffany blue polka dot shorts - Niall only knows this because Eleanor had told them a story how he’d nicked them off of her. Jesus.

 

“You came! And brought goodies!” He pulls Niall into a side hug, the hem of his shirt riding up just a smidge exposing the skin at his hips. Niall thinks he’ll be practicing a lot of self restraint today. Harry takes the Sainsbury bag from him, inspecting the ingredients as Niall steps inside, taking off his coat and tossing it on the sofa following Harry into the kitchen.

 

\--

Harry puts the juice into the fridge so it is cold by the time they’re done cooking, and lines the syrup bottle next to the maple syrup he’d bought last month when they’d visited the Borough’s, drops the spoon he’d been licking into the sink and puts back the sunbutter into the cabinet above it. He sidles up to Niall watching over how he’s going through all the ingredients, his eyes raking over the bowls and spoons and measurement utensils Harry has set out, and he says, “Okay, I’m ready.”  


Niall can cook, Harry learns. The way he dices the strawberries is better than his own work, but he wouldn’t admit, he’s also fully aware of how much of each ingredients goes in, and it is just pancakes but. He’s seen many people in the kitchen, some lost like Evanna, other intent on burning one crepe at a time, Louis. Niall is unwrapping the butter stick placing it in the bowl and then once it has melted in the microwave he pours the steaming liquid into the bowl, whiles Harry peruses to look for the jar of granola he hid from Eleanor. She loves it so much that last time he made it she ate the entire tray in one sitting which was followed with a stomach pains, and constipation.

 

“Harry, there is no spatula to fold it over,” Niall says, but Harry’s climbing the counter to look in the top cabinet so he just says, “Just use your hands.” Harry spots the jar behind oatmeal container and Yorkshire tea and grabs it, climbing down and setting it on the counter proudly. When he looks over at Niall he find him greatly struggling to mix the batter smoothly, “Niall, that isn’t ho-” He could offer the spatula in the drawers, the spoons alongside them, instead. “Here, let me help,” he hovers behind Niall, breathing in his scent. The aroma akin to fresh laundry on a sunday afternoon, warm and comforting.

 

Niall’s muscles shift under his shirt, the top of his shoulder straightens, and Harry dips his fingers into the bowl cupping Niall’s and kneading them through the mixture. Their fingers intertwine, and Harry presses closer to Niall’s back, the freckle below his ear taunting, teasing, waiting to be kissed. Their fingers slick with butter, brown sugar sticking to the insides making home in the valleys between each finger, and Harry wants to lick Niall’s hands clean. He tries to steady himself, ignoring the way his thrumming chest is clinging to Niall’s, and he wants to break the silence, but Niall is like a road in California, all soft lines, and curves.

 

“Harry,” Niall says, soft, careful and Harry’s pulling his hands back thinking he might’ve crossed a line he wasn’t meant to. Read the mood wrong. But then Niall latches onto his wrists, swirling around so that Harry’s back digs into the counter. There are three dark freckles at the base of his neck that he wants to play connect the dots with, using his lips. He drags his eyes down to the vee of his hips, his sweatpants hung loosely, the thread drawn loose. Niall’s adam’s apple bops, his throat curving and arching with the saliva moving down it.

 

Niall nods, because words are too harsh, too loud, and if they speak now the illusion crafted between them might break, or. “I want to kiss you,” Harry voices, because he can’t not. “Preferably everywhere.”

 

Niall chuckles, low and intimate, “What’s stopping you?” Harry pulls back his wrist, pressing his thumb to Niall’s hip bone, bringing the other to slide under his shirt. Niall yelps, “Your hands are cold..and sticky.” Harry leans forward placing his lips to Niall’s neck, but there is too much clothing in the way. He rucks up his shirt, pushing it up, gnawing at the neck of it that Niall eventually pulls back to tug it off.

 

“Happy?” Oh dear, god. The boy is perfectly defined, the way his broad shoulders dip into the hills of his arms, the slope of his collarbones, the way his belly - “What the fuck?”  


Niall looks down following Harry’s gaze, consciously stepping back, and Harry is already aching to touch him, have his hands learn each and every ridge of his spine, draw constellations with kisses onto his back, “Is something…”

 

“Your belly, it is, where is your belly?” And Niall blinks at him, incredulously, and when Harry doesn’t get it, “Been working out mate.” Stepping forward, “Didn’t think it would be a deal breaker.” It isn’t, not when Niall is so close, large hands holding Harry down, so he lurches to his neck, Their butterfingers intertwining at the sides as Harry licks the slope of Niall’s throat, his head falling back. “You’re a nutter,” he breathes, carelessly, like each puff could be wasted and time could stop and it will all be okay, and when Niall pulls Harry in closer, he reckons it might as well be.

 

Niall thrust his hips into Harry’s his hand finding his thighs and gripping around, Harry sucking on the skin of his throat until it’s blue, running his tongue over his work, and then moving to make another, and before he can catch on, he’s being lifted. “Oh god,” he gasps, curling his arms around Niall’s neck and legs around his waist, biting the shell of his ear eliciting a moan out of him, so of course, Niall wraps a hand around the nape of his neck tugging him in to meet his mouth - for the very first time. Niall kisses slow, letting their lips numb against one another, igniting a fire in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

 

Harry catches Niall’s bottom lip in his own teeth, and then pulls back, coming up for air, their forehead aligned together. Niall says with bated breath, “Don’t know why we waited so long.”

 

Harry’s bum meets the counter, his back poking into the bowl of batter, and he spots the sugary mixtures smeared just below Niall’s pecs, so he dives down to lick him clean. His tongue moving across the soft skin coated in sweet batter, looking up through his eyelashes, “Good things take time.” Niall’s eyes are soft around the edges, and Harry thinks, he can get used to being on the other end of it.

 

“Merry Christmas, Niall.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” pulling him in for another sweet kiss. He tastes like pancake batter.

 

\--

 

Niall’s eyes open to the digital clock set under Harry’s tv saying 6:57 pm which means they slept through most of the day. After a few more kisses they'd cleaned themselves up, and then finished making the pancakes, after which they proceeded to lazily make out on Harry’s sofa. Niall’s throat feels dry, he jostles a little under harry’s weight trying to reach for the bottle of water on the coffee table, and is nearly successful. Nearly.

 

Harry grunts, cuddling further into Niall’s chest, “Tired.” A year ago he’d spent this same day with his girlfriend, they'd rented out a villa in Bali and spent the entire weekend soaking in the sun. A year ago Niall was wondering if love could perhaps be the sugar coated version of settling, comprising, and it is, because it revolves a lot around coming to an agreement between two people. But right now, his arm limply encircling Harry’s waist, the London traffic buzzing through the open windows, the steady hum of their in-sync breathing feels everything but settling. His heart hiccups at that.

 

Niall shimmies down a little, resting his head on the cushion, counting the dust bunnies clinging to the blades of the ceiling fan. Harry lifts his head up, eyes peeking open ever-so-slightly, reaching up and kissing Niall’s chin, “You should stay the night.”

 

Niall entertains the thought, “Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome.” Harry brings a fist to his eyes smudging the sleep until his lids droop into a crinkle, his mouth tugging into a smile, “I'd like if you did.”

 

They don't move over to the bed, they don't wake up around midnight, they don't turn off the kitchen lights, and Niall doesn't go home. They don't talk about it either, feels like there is no need to.

  


_29th of December, 2013_

 

The story is being published next month, the piece that talks about the rise and supposed fall of Niall Horan. Except the article isn't in harmony with that, the article is about Niall enjoying other sports, Niall preferring tea over coffee, it is about Niall and not the self-absorbed asshole he’s painted to be. Pleased with his work Harry treats himself to sushi after work, getting enough to go for Eleanor since she'd come back early this morning from her romantic getaway weekend. Everything is going great, and he can't be happier.

 

_New Year's Eve_

 

Niall has to fly out to Spain on New Year's Eve to sort out some contractual obligations, the past two months having geared him for at least a test run on the field. He flies out on the 28th of December making sure to get into the hotel his agent had checked him in before midnight, so at least he has 8hrs to sleep before his meeting at 10 am the next day. Niall’s been sleeping better lately, especially since he’s been busy with the training that by the time he hits bed he’s too knackered to lay awake scratching away his thoughts, and in turn he doesn’t have nightmares. Hasn’t had for over two weeks and he thinks that is the longest running streak. He doesn’t dwell on it too much, worried he might jinx it.

 

There is another thing. Harry. They’ve been attached to the hip, since. Well, since Christmas. There isn’t much distinction about what their relationship is unfolding into, but that is probably cause they’re breaching past the awkward touches and tentative smiles, and mostly because being around one another is fun. They have more in common than not and even when they’ve exhausted the tap of conversation the looming silence isn’t uncomfortable, it is easy.

 

In the past he’d been wary of his relationship comparing them to the one’s before them and sometimes it is inevitable to do so because you only have the past to rely, to learn from, to draw patterns from. Right now though he doesn’t know. Not because he doesn’t have something to hold on to, but because Harry has made it impossible to think of someone other than him. It is all him. Harry’s citrusy scent spilling into Niall’s nose, the tangerine skin crammed under the shell of his nails, his fingers peeling at the fruit tactically, the cherry of his lips, and. And, his hiccupy laugh the one he gargles out from the back of his throat when he’s struggling for air, cheeks creasing into dimples, and Niall wants to learn every part of him.

 

There is a tremor down his spine as he jumps into the cold shower, numbing his thoughts, the water colliding against his smooth skin. He’s got this thing where he starts to feel all too much, enough that he wants to charge forward with the blanket of secrets, shed his skin bare and let go. When he’d started at Barcelona Luis had told him that there are two things that matter most when it comes to being out on the field. One, the ball. Two, his teammates. Easy enough because everything translates into a goal and he’s just trying his best to kick towards it. He doesn’t know what the future holds for him, but right now, waking up in a city that smells like coming home, his first thought is of Harry.

 

Once he’s toweled himself dry swinging the door to the en suite open, he scuffles about to retrieve his phone, picks it off from the charging stand, and presses the second recent number, the first being Liam. The call goes through, ringing twice, and on the third one Niall is ready to hang up, but it finally is answered.

 

“Sorry, I’m running late for work, totally slept in this morning and then burnt the english muffins because I wasn’t paying attention, also, today is the last meeting for finalizing the the details of the cover for next month's issue and Evanna has been on my ass,” Harry says. There is a sound of the door closing and Niall imagines him just leaving his flat, running to catch the lift in time. Niall pads across the length of the room to the bed picking up the ironed white button-up he’d brought, slipping his arms through it with the phone held in-between his ear and shoulder, switching to hold it in his left hand when he starts fastening the buttons.

 

“Do you think you’ll get to the meeting on time?” Niall asks, sitting down and pulling the jeans on, then digging his feet into his boots. Lacing them by holding on to the anglet and tying a bow. Harry pauses, “I miss you.”

 

Niall’s taken aback. He stops fiddling with buttons of his cuffs, the wrinkles already setting in with each movement. The clock above the dresser ticks 8:30 and he’d promised to meet Liam for breakfast, but there are nails dug into the ground keeping his feet fixed until he’s ready to move. “Yeah, I miss you too.”

 

A warm tingling buds in his chest when Harry laughs into the speaker, unadulterated and coherent. Niall hangs up with a promise to call soon, thinking how he ought to be home tonight seeing as it is New Year’s and no matter how cliche it may be he’d like to kiss Harry.

 

Breakfast with Liam is cut short because he’s too nervous for Niall’s own sake, rushing him through the doors of the building into the conference room where Jordi Mestre, the vice-president of sport, and the head coach, Luis Enrique, is sitting along with legal officials. An array of paralegals to lawyers dressed in sharp suits with glasses and a stern look on their face - they look like they’ve been starved of simple joys in life if Niall’s being honest. The meeting commences with talks of his return and how he’d have to renew his contract which doesn’t seem too much trouble to him, but their is this hint of underlying tension. Thin ice that everyone is cautious to approach, and it is only worsening his nerves.

 

His own lawyer reads the clauses thoroughly and asks for a copy before Niall goes ahead and signs them, and he’s not even to the second page when he looks up horrified, Niall stiffening beside him. Before he can tell him, Luis speaks, his spanish accents bleeding into his English vowels, “There is a cut off clause. The club is entitled to remove you from the roster, even rescind the contract, in case you don’t meet the minimum cut to play the next season.”  


Niall swallows the buildup of saliva in his mouth, gripping the arms of the seat he’s sitting in, “You mean if I’m not good you’re kicking me out.”  


Luis grimaces. “That is rather harsh, Niall. It is just what is best for the club.”

 

There is punch of silence like one of them air-tight containers that are sealed to keep oxygen out, and he feels like he’s been forgotten inside, trapped to die. “Okay, when is the cut off date?”

 

“March 21st.”

 

The first thing Niall does after the meeting is call Louis, Liam long gone, which he picks up immediately, “How’d it go?”  


“They gave me an ultimatum,” Niall seethes, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. The parking lot is emptying with every passing minute, his heart racing to catch up to the frenzied thought bouncing in his head. “They can’t cut you. You’re the best they have. _Ever had_ .”  


Niall scoffs, bitterly, “This isn’t the time to brush up my self-esteem, Louis. I need to know what I have to do get back into the league with a secure footing. Do you think I can extend Mark’s hours to the weekend as well?”  


“Ok, tone it down, you can’t just increase your workout hours. You’d burn out,” Louis states matter-of-factly. “Mate, you need time, and need to spend as much time possible in Spain. We start training the second week of January so obviously come up and familiarize with the field.”

 

“And?”  


“Hope for the best,” Louis says, words edging on hope that he speaks of. Niall wishes he had that much faith, in anything much less himself.

 

\--

Harry stirs the cocktail with the green stirrer he’s 90% sure Nick pilfered from his last starbucks visit, but he doesn’t say anything, stays slouched with his arms cradling his head as he looks up at the glass filled with dark liquid. Slender fingers dip into his shoulder, Eleanor coming to stand beside him, “Love sick so early into the arrangement?”  


Harry rolls his eyes, lifting his head up and scratching at the bar’s countertop which is chipped at the edge giving way to the honey brown under the polished chestnut, “I’d call him my boyfriend.”  


Eleanor snorts. “Harry, love, I’ve known you for the past 4 years and have yet to see you call any of the people you’re, er. You know, you’ve never referred to them as a boyfriend or girlfriend.”

 

“This is different, El,” he looks down at his hands, the the lines etched into them similar to one’s doodled into his planner, then down at his wrist splitting into bluish creeks. A fading bruise right at his pulse point, throbbing a gentle reminder. “Do you sometimes feel like, like maybe everything, and anything you’ve done or the people you’ve met are there to lead you to -”  


She’s not listening, not really because her eyes are sparkling akin to the feeling Harry’s trying to articulate, the feeling he’s been running from, and then Louis is striding over with a tiara that says _2014_ in hand and is placing it on Eleanor’s head.

 

She pats his chest reaching up to lay a hasty kiss to his cheek, turning to Harry after, “You were saying?”

 

Harry shakes his head, waving her off and putting his head back on the bartop. Surely, spending the night sulking while drinking expensive alcohol can’t be the worst way to start New Year’s. “Harry…”El calls out to him again, but he has accepted his fate for the night. “I said, it is ok, it is nearing midnight, go smack one on Louis.”  


He feels a hand weigh on his shoulder so he jerks up, annoyed, “Didn’t I say -” Stopping short when he sees Niall standing behind him. His hair unkempt, lying on his forehead, glasses framing his face, “Aw, I was hoping I’d get a New Year’s kiss.”  


Harry splutters out of his chair, limbs attacking Niall in every direction but mostly wrapping around his neck, their chests flush against one another. “You said you couldn’t come in until tuesday afternoon?”  


Niall shrugs, clasping his hands to the small of Harry’s back, “Got work done early. Couldn’t miss our first New Year’s together.”  


“Together?” Harry asks, hesitant to let Niall choose whatever he want to call this. This wonderful thing budding in between them.

 

“That is ok, right? Us?” Niall is breaking into a smile and Harry is too so he nuzzles his nose into Niall’s shoulder, afraid he’d see the happines pouring out of him in Niall’s eyes. Whispers, just above the wretched playlist Grimmy has been playing on loop all night, “Us, together.”


	3. Barcelona

_5th of January, 2014_

Niall has to fly back and forth a lot starting January. The club wants him to start practicing at the stadium and gear up for the upcoming season so he does as expected out of him, a tinge of fear running through him that they’ll sack him evidently. But he knows he can’t think like that, can’t afford to especially when so many people are counting on him. And he’ll do anything not to disappoint them. 

 

Thursday morning they start off with juggling, Niall separate with a trainer and physio on his side at all times, while the team is doing routine drills before the match with Manchester City which is in February - passing, dribbling, working on their first touch, shielding. He picks the ball up from the bottom, bouncing it up to his good knee, and then with tentative measures to his left one, and when he doesn’t feel the nabbing throb he glances up and smiles at Joan who has his brow raised - not as supportive as Mark had been. So, Niall continues juggling finding balance on both his feet, quick with each dribble. He does this for a solid 30 minutes until his calves start to ache. Joan waves him to move on to the next.

 

Next they practice on his shielding which mostly consists of rolling the ball swiftly from the top enough so that you can maneuver it back and forth. Essentially you need to be soft with your foot on the ball, and once he’s managed to impress the coach past the initial stage he’s allowed to run the cones with it. He repeats the slalom pattern for the length of 8 to 10 soccer balls and on his first day finishes a ten yard sprint. Joan, is one of the auxiliary coaches at the club, meaning he’s not as close to the boys, more willing to chew their ear off. He’s also newer, enough that he’s not familiar with Niall’s footwork, so once they’re done with the runs he’s calling Niall over some beginner pointers - the same one’s he had to hear from Luis years back when he’d first started out.

 

His hands are resting on his hips, Niall trotting over to his side of the field, the dewy grass familiar and grounding beneath him, “You’re putting too much weight on the ball with top of your right foot, and not putting enough with your left. This could make you lose balance and you’d fall. Also, remember to keep your shoulders over the ball and try to not sway your shoulders outside of your foot base. Could push you over if you do.”

Niall nods, wiping his forehead with his forearm, his skin slick with sweat dripping down the bridge of his brows, he can feel the heat of his cheeks. “Alri’, Coach, anything else?” Surprisingly, Joan loosens up, his arms that had previously been over his chest falling to his sides, the intimidating posture forgone, “You aren’t going to say you already know that? Gloat about how you took the club to the Semi-Finals last season?”

 

Niall shakes his head, crouching down to tie the laces into a knot to his cleats, “No, because I didn’t make them win.” He looks up, the sun shining behind Joan’s head, the neat trim of his crew cut splintering sunlight like laser beams similar to the laser tag place back in Doncaster Louis once took them to, the beginnings when it was all new, fresh. “There’s no pride in a half-assed job, coach,” Niall affirms, getting up, “When I do bring back the Champions League trophy, then I can gloat and say that these techniques are for amateurs. For now, I am one of the same as them.”

Niall can see Joan’s lip twitch into a smile, but before he gets a minute to absorbs it he’s saying, “100 crunches. Right now. Go.” This is going to be a long taunting training session.

He spends the following week working day in and night with his trainers and physical therapist, Liam taking him under his wing after the first three sessions, and he helps him work on more than just routine football therapy, helps with his knee. They work on internal and external rotations in his knee joint, making sure it cramps up minimally, and it does work. As days go by, the phantom pains that used to act up since after the surgery last July decrease steadily, of course all the therapy beforehand had helped.

 

Liam is helping him flex his legs, Niall’s upper body pliant on the padded board, “Couldn’t have thought you’d be out running again.” The air conditioning in the room is amped to the max, Niall thinks, making the cold sweats send a shiver down his spine and for a passing moment he reminisces back to last spring, when he’d figured he’d shattered his knee to the point beyond recovery. Of course, it’s innately human to make the worst out of a situation and he’d only needed a surgery and good amount of therapy to get back on his feet. Getting here, right now, eyes closed rewinding each clip in his head, was hard though he’d be a fool to say he didn’t receive help. From friends and -

 

“Liam,” Niall sits up, pausing his friends abruptly to which he reacts minimally, nudging Niall’s foot to sit down on the elevated board. “Has Zayn told you abo-”

“Harry?” Liam finishes for him which catches him off guard. Clearly, there has been enough talk that Liam feels comfortable about this. “Yeah,” Niall stutters, unknowingly. “We’re sort of a thing? I think?”

 

Liam presses a thumb to the bony protrusion of Niall’s left knee, a punch of force and then grazes down the telling scar, “Niall, you couldn’t play this season. They expect you to next.” That isn’t the point, but his friend has made it out to be. There are times when you don’t actively think about something until it is pointed out to you and when it is you’re bound to obsess over it, working out the kinks till you’re satisfied. This is inevitably going to become a thing, he reckons.

 

There isn’t much conversation after, seems like there is no need for it to be, and when Niall stumbles back to his hotel room. His loft still going through some adjustments to move into, he has only one thing on his mind, his phone dimming, showing a mingy 1% sign in the right corner. He plugs it in and moves to the landline punching in the only number he’s learned by heart in the past however many years, the dial tone sharp against his eardrum, and then a gravelly voice is tittering in, “‘Ello?”

 

“Every part of me is aching,” Niall starts off with, sitting down on the soft mattress, his jersey sticking to his chest thanks to the copious amount of sweat he’d worked up. He feels quite filthy if he’s being honest. Harry whistles, careening into a chuckle, “Take a bath, babe. It will help.”

 

Niall scoffs, the idea already displeasing to his ears, “Who’d like to sit in their own filth? That’s disgusting.” But he does get up, his shaky legs pinching with pain with each step he takes towards the en suite bathroom, raking the shelves for proper bathing ‘products’ as Harry chatters away into his ear. There is mention of bath oils, incense sticks to lift the ambience into a more relaxing mood, and bath bombs, all of which Niall doesn’t have on him. There is a small cherry blossom scented bubble bath bottle on the sink shelf though, a pink petaled tree uprooted on the plastic cover. Niall scuttles to the sparkling tub, turning on the faucet and adjusting it to the right temperature, “It has to be a tad warm, Ni. To properly hit your muscles, yeah?”

 

Niall hums, hearing distinct shuffling on the other end, “What are you doing right now?”

“Well,” there’s a pause after, a soft thud of clothes Niall imagines, and the Harry’s speaking again, “this phone call has inspired me to take one myself.” Niall himself stop fiddling with his shorts, pulling the phone away from his ear and taking off his shirt, is ready to dip his foot into the bathtub when Harry’s voice comes through, muffled. “Niall James Horan, take off your pants as well.”

 

Niall opens his mouth like a fish out of water, but ends up doing as he’s told, slipping into the bathtub naked, the porcelain not drowned in water cold against his moist skin, “This is…”

 

Harry catching the trail end of his words, “Nice?”

 

“If I said yeah you’d never let me live it down.”

Niall doesn’t hang up, lets the silence stew between them, the sound of the water swishing with every slight movement either if them makes filling in the gaps, the bubbles crowding against his chest. And his muscles do feel relaxed, resting into the quiet lull. A good part into their soak, Niall’s speaking into the phone again, voice heavy with the lingering tiredness, “This outta be weird? Taking a bath together, no?”And Harry just says no, rattling off into a story about how Eleanor locked him out of his room the night before when he drove back from holmes chapel. She had his key and thought to close it while he was at home and then went to sleep with the key nowhere in sight. He had to fit his long limbs on their tiny couch which was terrible for his back, one, and two, didn’t help with his sour mood.

 

“Why? What has you upset?” Niall asks, blowing at the bubble floating towards him, wafting it to the the other end with the air in his lungs. He quite likes this. “Just...I don’t know. You’ve been gone long.”

He pushes back to the lip of the tub, his back aligning with the concave wall, “Be back Saturday, yeah?”

  
Niall isn’t able to make it back on Saturday, his coach calls him in for weekend sessions, and he’s left leaving Harry a voicemail at the crack of dawn. Niall can’t help, but shake the feeling of it being a start of something - good or bad, he’s not sure. Every morning he runs the perimeter of Estadio Camp Nou until he’s gasping to catch his breath, and then he segues into the afternoon training after devouring the protein bars Liam has stacked in his fridge, drinking some of his cool blue gatorade because in all honesty Niall is doing him a favor. The lad lives on junk.

 

Louis sometimes joins him when he’s not spewing profanities at Luis for keeping such early practices, but mostly he’s alone, because the team is still playing this season, they still are shouldering the weight of their first string forward. There is a silver lining, seeing the sunrise every morning, the bright yellow break through the crown of the stadium and bathing it in its light. There is the smile of junior athletes rushing in at noon, spotting him in the corner running goal drills, falling on his arse and hesitantly reaching to him for an autograph. If you could live to make it better for others, if you could live to see a couple million people smile, Niall thinks that he’d do it.

 

Minutes phase into hours, hours into days, and before he knows it he’s at the cusp of January, raking through his calendar to find a day off, and yet. Niall paces through his room, finally settled into his loft as settled he can be with his hectic regime, clothes exploded in every part of his room, when the ringing of facetime pulls him out of his havoc. He accepts the call, padding to his laptop and tapping at the green button, and Harry’s wide forehead comes into view, instantly dissipating the tension in his shoulder.

 

“Babe, too close,” Niall suggests, and Harry makes a cooing sound pushing himself back, his tummy dragging down the his bed. From what he can see he can spot tiny glimpses of his bare thighs, the hem of his black briefs curving around the sun-kissed skin. The boy is tan even in winters, god knows how, especially when all can manage is a scalding burn and deep seated freckles.

 

Harry frowns, first thing, then purses his lips, and Niall has to lean over the back of his chair to take him in, the way his curls are softly framing his face, and how the mole near his jaw his prominent under the light of his macbook. Niall wants to touch him.

 

“You’re not coming, are you?” An edge of hope lingering at the end of his words, and Niall has to sigh. “Harry…”

 

He pulls up his shoulder tilting the screen to his laptop, and clears his throat, making sure Niall is looking at his face and only that, “‘S ok. Think Eleanor is going to be out of town, anyway. Couldn’t do a party, yeah? We’ll just have a thing when you get a day off. Okay?”

 

Niall swivels the seat so he can slide in, putting his elbows on the desk, and says, “What do you want for your birthday?”

 

Harry’s eyes are glimmering, Niall can swear, a bright twinkle that he wants to snap with one of them cameras Harry has laying around in his flat, “How inappropriate can I be over skype?”

 

Niall laughs, heartily, louder than he has in a while, too stressed about cutoffs. Cupping his chin, “You have something in mind?”

 

Harry shrugs, moving further back and then he’s getting on his knees, toying with buttons of his splotchy red and blue shirt till he has unfastened each and every single one, the silky material falling down his shoulder, “Oh, Jesus. Harry .”

Niall slides his palms across his thighs, perspiration lined rubbing against the denim of his jeans, and Harry halts, quite comically reaching down to his screen again and tutting disapprovingly, “Stop. Don’t do that.”

 

“Do what?” Niall’s brain slowly catching up to each word, too distracted by the pink of Harry’s lips. “Don’t touch yourself.”

Niall blinks, once. Twice. “Wait, what? How am I supposed to -”

But Harry’s too quick to interrupt, pushing back again and skating his hands over his boxers, and then he starts palming himself. Niall weighs down on his seat, his tongue drying, “Harry.”

“Want you to see me get off,” Harry says, tone hushed. So, Niall nods, peering at the laptop screen seeing the way slips his hand into his briefs, and then he’s saying, “Take them off.” Harry does as he’s told pushing the waistband of his boxer down until it is pooling around his thigh, immediately cupping himself, and even from the grainy computer screen Niall see the blush rising up his bare chest. The tip of his finger burning to be the one mapping each and every curve, indent, blemish of Harry’s body.

 

Harry tugs himself, his undone hair falling over his shoulder as he builds a rhythm, Niall’s own dick twitching to be relieved, but he doesn’t make any move to do anything about it, watches the way the sheen of sweat over Harry’s forehead reflects thanks to the light emitting from the screen, and oddly enough there is a sense of vulnerability present in the entire situation. The way Harry’s held off his embarrassment for Niall’s sake and to think that they’d been bickering a couple of months back, to think he’d been stuck in a slump, everything seems so distant now - out of reach at this point.

 

Harry's breath hitches, crooning his name with one final tug, shoulders slack, “ _Niall_.” There’d been a time when words had come harder to him, and then times when it was the easiest thing in the world to be able to share the bucket full of love stored in the cavities of his chest, because sometimes imparting away little pieces of yourself is the simplest thing to do, but then he had to take a step back. And yeah, it’s been years since he’s felt the need to, but right, he’s still, full and overwhelmingly fond. Niall could say it if time allowed.

 

“If you say my name like that, love, even I’d have a - oh shit,” Niall stops mid-sentence, looking down at his crotch that is pooling his own come, glancing back at the screen where Harry’s quiescently lying on his stomach, wrung out proper, and he splutters into a laugh. Harry following in after him, “I made the Niall Horan come without even touching.”

 

“Oi, fuck off,” Niall retorts.

 

Harry’s birthday is on a saturday so technically speaking Niall should be able to find time between his daily session with Joan and his meeting with the board to call Harry, but of course, fate isn’t spinning the dial in his favor and he’s not done with everything until late at night, around 11. With cold feet, and a heavy heart, he picks up his cell phone from where is it charging near his bedside table and dials Harry’s number, which goes to voicemail. Then after the third call in, he realizes that he might’ve made plans with Grimshaw and the lot.

 

After brushing his teeth and changing into cotton boxers, he turns over to flip off his lamp, when his phone starts buzzing, the picture of Harry’s face lighting up his screen. He slides the screen to answer the car, pressing the ear piece to his head and goes to say hello but.

 

“I miss you,” Harry hiccups, and Niall reckons he’s drunk. Three years ago they had a circus in Barcelona that Louis and Niall attended where they say a puppeteer who was nothing less than impressive, pulling on the strings and changing his voice to adapt the local accent for his improv, coming up with on spot storylines. It had been peculiar seeing someone else control the little stories and changing them according to his taste, and it doesn’t make much sense, but the way Harry’s voice acts like strings attached to him, tugging and pulling till he’s saying, “I miss you too” feels a lot like it had seeing the puppeteer.

 

“Pixie has a boyfriend now,” Harry speaks, “Says she’ll marry him.” It is late, enough that they should hang up and not be having this conversation, one that treads too close to comfort, but Niall eggs him on, wanting to know what else Harry has to say. “She’s known him for two weeks, Niall.”

 

Niall’s only known Harry for a couple of months, it is not enough time, but he’s hearing Harry say, “I want that. With you, yeah? What do americans call them? Fencing?”

 

“White picket fence.”

“Right, yes, we could do that.” Too soon, Niall thinks. Then Harry’s segueing into another story that is missing many chunks, an incomplete puzzle piece, but Niall lets him ramble on until the conversation is ebbing away into sleep. Niall thinks he could sleep to this for the next, however, many years.

 

Next morning, he goes to the airport getting on the next flight to London, emailing his P.A. that he won’t be attending practice or training or the meetings he’d been set up to do over the next week. While he’s waiting to board, impatient to not keep seated, he walks over to the pop-up shops, scouring for a quick read, but then Niall catches his own mirror image glossed up on the front of Vogue magazine. He picks it up from the stand and tries to recall when that picture was taken and rakes rakes his brain senseless, the article is titled ‘The grass of always greener - on the other side with Niall Horan.’

 

The cashier eyes him down inquisitively when he purchases it, probably thinking how it is self-absorbed of Niall to buy the issue with his face on it, so he makes sure to toss a twix bar and a packet of hot cheetos and a fiji water bottle to the mix. Doesn’t look the man in the eye when he’s done paying, too eager to pull the pages apart to find the piece written over him. He’s never read anything he’s interviewed for, but this one he has to, reasons unimaginable.

 

The flight is about 3 hours long, which helps him squeeze in a nap, waiting till the last hour to read the magazine and when he does, flipping to the last page of his section, he’s never been so sure about a decision -

 

_‘You’d think he’d lose the sense of humility that comes along to some inherently, but that’s what we are most quick to do, make assumptions based on our previous knowledge. Niall Horan stands to break past them for us, and we look forward to see him on the field in the near future.’_

\--

_2nd of February, 2014_

 

Harry groans at the sound of the doorbell, dragging himself out of bed, and trekking towards the apartment. He unhooks the latch and doesn’t bother looking through the peephole, edging the door open with his foot caught in between, “Who -”

Niall’s wearing an olive green jacket with a striped jumper under it, holding a jar of organic sunbutter - the same kind Harry devoured to bits last weekend -, “I come bearing presents.”

 

Harry pushes the door open and leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, “I only see one.”

 

Niall shrugs, inching forward, the arm holding the jar dangling by his side as he bring the other to Harry’s cheek, “Thought I could get away with the kisses being the other.”

Harry shakes his head, tipping his head onto Niall’s shoulder, and breathing against his collarbone, “That’ll do.” Niall presses his lips to Harry’s temples, breathing in the citrusy scent that’s mixed with a musky smell, and says, “So, what do you wanna do today?”

 

When Harry was younger, around 12 or 13 they’d come up to London to visit their extended family and celebrate his birthday, his mother would take them antiquing down to the Portobello Street Market, they’d get off on the Notting Hill station where she’d hand them 20 quid to spend and him and Gemma would tear the place apart, running all around to collect little trinkets for themselves. His favorite always were those vintage vinyls that Deakin, a man with a boxy tent hoarding records that Des used to play to him when they still lived with him, kept. He remembers he’d buy stained glass jar and collect seashells in them next time they went down to brighton beach, and he’d set aside enough to get friendship bracelets for himself and gemma, and those cheap second hand scarves that vendors sold calling them Pashmina for his mum.

 

Harry dresses himself into a cable-knit jumper he wears whenever he’s back in Holmes Chapel, his favorite one, but think it is wise to put it on today since he’s missing his mum and sister. Once he’s done pulling on his boots and running a hand through his hair, he walks out to finds Niall in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, and moving to dice tomatoes. He hadn’t even asked where everything was, just proceeded to take the non-stick pan out of the oven and trick;es a few drops of olive oil on it. Harry doesn’t move from his spot, watching how with careful fingers Niall chops the vegetables with finesse, cupping them and dropping them into the bowl with the egg yolks, then grabbing a fork and whisking it all nicely until he’s satisfied. He turns to find something, but nabs Harry staring at him. Yesterday, when he’d gotten tipped off at the club, and hurled outside on Grimmy’s shoes, when he’d danced to ‘Dance with Somebody’ at Pixie’s apartment, he’d only wanted one thing. The thing he’s looking at right now.

 

“Uh,” Niall stutters, rubbing a hand at the base of his neck, “I hope you don’t mind. Reckoned you’d been starving and I was, so wanted to cook us up an omelette.”

“No, that is good, great,” Harry chokes, seeing how Niall’s jacket is nicely draped over the back of Harry’s white couch; the green contrasting nicely with it. And like if he’d be brave enough to say that is where it belongs, then he would.

 

They eat in silence, the toaster still fizzing away the heat into the room, and Harry skates his hand towards Niall’s where it is resting on the table as he chews on his toast, daring to hook his pinky with Niall’s, at which he looks up at him, “We should go antiquing.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They take the tube instead of driving, to the market, arriving a little after 1:30 in the afternoon, and before they step passed the curb towards the other side, Harry’s camera strung over his shoulder, he says, “Give me your wallet.”

He holds out his hand, and Niall knits his brows in confusion, nevertheless digging it out of his pocket and handing it over to him, and then asking, “This is supposed to be my treat.”

 

Harry opens it, smiling at the polaroid  from Louis’ birthday tucked behind the clear seam, and takes out two notes of 20 pounds and hands one to Niall and keeps one for himself. Putting the wallet away into his camera bag, taking out his DSLR all the while and looping it around his neck. “Never said it wasn’t,” Harry says, smiling. Niall narrows his eyes at him, following in Harry’s step as they weave through the mass of people, sunday market buzzing, “I don’t get it.”

“You will soon enough! Just follow my lead.”

They stop at several stands, Niall struggling a bit in the start, picking up a sterling silver owl pendant in Harry’s face, “This good?”

 

“No,” exaggerates around the vowel, “You can’t just pick stuff up. There is a technique!”

 

Niall puts back the necklace, and the hat after that, and the leather jacket which in Harry’s opinion looked rather sleek on him, but he’d never tell, and the jar of pigeon feathers because they sell everything here, literally. “You have to let the relic find you, Ni. It calls out to you! Sings a song!”

 

Niall scoffs, walking in step with him, “You say like you’re some sorta antique monger.”

 

Harry clicks his teeth, grinning, “Oh, but darling, I am.” Niall swats him which definitely hurts and will most likely leave behind a bruise, “Careful, I’m delicate!” He’d yelled after.

 

But when Niall does find something to his liking, after an hour of rifling thru stalls after stalls, a man selling the original print of a magazine from Pelé’s epoch he does everything in him to haggle the salesman to bring down the price to 20 quids. Harry notices how his voice drops a notch, the brusque irish lilt bleeding thru each word he says to bargain to a fair price, his cheeks heating up to a red tint that perfectly matches the canopy of the vendor’s stall. Harry picks up the camera, the shutter opening as he takes a pictures of Niall’s profile, the throng of passerby’s blurring into a symphony of colors. He hasn’t taken a picture like this in ages, since, the interview with Niall himself.

 

There is a rainbow breaking through the cumulus hanging over them, there is a child chewing his mother’s ear off a little ways down the street, and Harry, well, he’s only looking at Niall.

 

Triumphantly, Niall walks over to him, brandishing his magazine in Harry’s face the pointy canine’s of his poking out along with his smile. “Uhuh, and you said I couldn’t do it,” waving the sheaf of papers binding together at the spine, and Harry drops his camera to his chest, nabbing him by the collar and pressing his mouth square to Niall’s, chasing the taste of the sweet lemonade they’d bought coming in.

 

Harry pulls back, looking over Niall’s shoulder at the rack of scarves and hats, “Oh, my god, I found the perfect thing.”

He wraps a fuzzy scarf around his neck, flipping his hair, and accentuates his words seductively, gliding his palms down his chest, “I like to feel blonde all _over._ ”

 

“Fucking twat,” Niall stifles a laugh, hooking his hand into Harry’s and kissing his cheek and bringing his lips to the shell of Harry’s ear, “I can help with that.”

They tire themselves on rocky pavement, chasing after balloons that a child lets go off, and bargaining with the hustlers of Portobello. When’s they’re beyond exhausted, Harry’s camera fully loaded with new pictures to print and tack onto his wall of mishaps, the totter to the tube. Swaying to their destination, as it rocks Niall to sleep on his shoulder, and when they get to the station near Harry’s flat he nudges him awake, soaking in the softness of his hooded gaze.

 

They don’t do much after, call for chinese takeout and fall asleep on the sofa before even combing thru the delivery order.

 

\--

 

Niall flies back later that week, purposely ignoring the incessant buzzing of his phone, and Harry asks him, periodically, if he’d get in trouble for being back in London instead of training and Niall wishes he cared. Like he’s going to Mark’s while Harry’s at work and when he’s back they’re too spent from the day’s activities to do anything, but lazily make out on the stupid sofa. The night before he leaves they sleep in Harry’s bed to spare his back, Niall’s hand pressed to the curve of Harry’s hip, every touch so infinitely important.

 

Liam comes to pick him up from the airport, getting him around Friday noon, with a rather stern look on his face, thankfully Louis’ accompanying him. Niall hikes up the duffle bag up his shoulder, walking towards them and Liam presses a solid hand to his chest, “I hope you know how greatly you’re fucking this up for yourself.”

 

“Nice to see you too, Li,” Louis rolling his eyes and pushing past him to gather Niall into a hug. “How’s Harry?”

 

“Mopey and Happy,” Niall claims, and Louis laughs. “El’s been the same. But she’s flying out for the game in two weeks so that outta be nice.”

Liam grunts to which Louis says, “Oh, could you piss off. Just cause you aren’t getting your fix cause Z’s on tour doesn’t mean you have to make our lives a living hell.”

They’re walking past the trolleys to the front doors, them automatically opening for them, as a gust of wind breaks thru Niall’s jacket, “I suppose I’m the only one who remembers how Niall's been given an ultimatum. He can hold off on the romance until after he’s secured his career once again.”

 

Niall is already tired to bicker with Liam over this, too high off the week he’d spent with Harry, so he quietly tucks himself into the backseat as Liam and Louis go off on each other. Obviously, he’d weighed the consequences of his little departure, but it is still agitating to see Luis treat him like he’s made the gravest mistake of all. At least, Joan is nice about it and doesn’t mention it during training.

 

Two weeks later he’s told by Luis that he’d be subbing into the quarter finals if the team makes it past the Round of 16. The decision is quite abrupt if you’d ask him, but it is also set up to his disadvantage, “You’re going to cut me off right on the spot though?”

Luis raises his brow, looking up from the file in front of him of Niall’s progress as of late, “You have a cut off date. If you’ve improved and get us to win -”

“The fuck?” Niall seethes, holding his ground and trying not to blow his top off, struggling to keep the composure he’d so very hard fought for. “You’re basically telling me to take you to semifinals. In a season that I am not due to play in. Knowing fully well I’m recovering from my injury.”  
Luis clasps his hands together on the round table, his shoulders moving forward, “Listen, Niall, we value your work for the club. But lately, you’ve let distractions skew your best interest for the team and we can’t afford that especially after bearing that embarrassing loss last year.”

 

Niall tacks on to what he is saying and his brain reels in to each word, “You have got to be kidding me.”

He pushes back his chair, rushing out the conference room to the clinic, which is two floors down, taking the stairs because he’s impatient to wait for the lift. He walks past the front desk not stopping to say hello to Sally the desk attendant who ever so fond of him and barges into Liam’s office, “You _asshole_!”

 

Liam is on his computer, looking up and sighing, “Niall, listen.”

 

“You told him I’m distracted? I don’t have the club’s interest at heart? God. Liam you don’t have to sabotage my career to build your own, you know?”

 

“You _have_ been distracted,” Liam fights back.

 

But Niall’s too wired with anger, the door knocking open and Louis coming in, “What’s going on?”

 

Niall breathes in, his chest heaving up and down unsteadily, “I am asking for a new physio starting tomorrow. You can train athletes who care to win, then, Liam.” He pushes past Louis, their shoulders brushing and bangs the door in his wake, too aggravated by the entire situation.

 

He walks out of the office building into the parking lot, pulling up Harry’s number, and when his voice breaks thru he’s saying, “Hey, Harry, how do you feel about flying out to visit me late March?”

 

They do win the Round of 16.

 

\--

_28th of February, 2014_

 

Harry goes home for the weekend, to get away from the city for a bit, and also because Niall’s been gone for two weeks now and he’s feeling homesick of him. So, he drives back to Holmes Chapel, which talks about 4 hours with the rest stops and because he’d seen a nest of red-billed tropicbird and had to pull over to take pictures. The fair winged creature with its red bill was picking away at the twigs it had entwined to make its home. Nature is so funny, how it has given space for everyone to fit in, yet human beings have made it hard to do the exact opposite.

  
Before he’d left he’d let El know and rang up Gemma so she can also come down to visit - she’s gone back to school recently to pile on a couple more degrees under her belt. Harry couldn’t be more proud.

 

The drive passes by singing along to whatever is on the radio until he switches over to Adele’s new album, and before he knows it, he’s pulling into his driveway. He parks the car, popping the boot open to grab his bag and the bundt cake he’d baked earlier to bring with - Anne’s voice at the back of his head, “Shouldn’t ever go to someone’s house empty handed.”

 

With a nudge of his elbow he locks the trunk, strolling across the pavement to the front door, he slots his key in turning it around, and pushing the door to welcome him in, the smell of roast enveloping. He can practically taste the garlic bread his mother  has wedged into the oven, closing the door with foot, the sound earning him a call, “Harry, is that you?”

 

“Yeah, mum. Just taking off my shoes, be there in a sec,” and he does just that. Takes off his shoes, puts the cake on the dining table before walking into the living room, dropping his bag on the edge of the nearest sofa, and collapses in his mother’s lap who’s reading an autobiography, the face of the author printed on the cover with the title above it.

 

“How’s my acorn?” she asks, threading her fingers through his hair. Untangling the knots at the ends, so soft he barely feels the tug, “Mum, I’m towering over the rest of you lot. When will I graduate from the acorn status?”

 

She hums, scratching his scalp, Harry leaning into the touch as if he’s a cat, curling on the sofa - warm and comfortable -, “You’ll always be my little acorn, love.”

 

“How’s Niall been?” She asks. He’d told her about him a little after New Years, it had seemed right to let her know, and she’d been ecstatic. And when he was over two weeks back for his birthday week they’d skyped her and she’d been smiling the whole time. Afterwords, when Niall had excused himself to use the restroom she’d said she liked him. Harry wouldn’t have guessed otherwise. She’d asked about his parents then, but Harry didn’t have answer. Niall doesn’t talk much about his family.

 

“Busy,” Harry says, picking at the rip in his jeans. “Mum, do you ever feel, or, like felt like your life has hit a pause button?”

 

Anne stews over it a bit, “Dunno, what you mean, love.”

“Like, I feel like I got the best job too soon, and got the best friends too soon, and now on my way to this -” vaguely gestures with his hands, “with Niall. And I feel as if I have nothing to look forward to.”

 

“Sometimes consistency is nice,” she says, but it is not that. It is just. What’s next?

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “Maybe I’ve tapped out my full potential.”

 

“Shut up, come here,” engulfing him into a hug and pressing a series of kisses on his head. Harry can feel his heart swell, the pressure on his shoulders lifting, as if he’d brought a dumbbell back home and was carrying it over his shoulders. Not the best analogy, but it makes sense to him, just like the vague pictures strung up in his room, pictures in which you can’t even see many faces, but memories you can. There is a wholeness in the pit of his stomach, and he’s never felt it before, and wishes it stays.

 

Harry says, after a beat, “He’s great mum just always keeps me on my feet, making me miss him always.”

 

“Well, don’t you just do that. Spend all your time just missing him, yeah?”

 

After dinner Harry climbs the stairs to his bedroom, and when he’s looking thru his drawers to find a old scrapbook, he comes across a small envelope. He opens it to find the pictures of the carnival that took place in sixth form, when he’d first gotten a camera, and he remembers how he’d only wanted to do just that. Take pictures until the film in his camera ran out. Funny, how he’d forgotten he’d felt that way. Until.

 

Not stagnant, he decides, just en route to something new.

 

The following week the review of his article comes in, Evanna calling him in to share the statistics with him, “Congratulations, you did well. The board was substantially pleased with your work.”

 

Harry shrugs, noticing for the first time the digital watch on her desk, the staedtler colored pens thrown in the bright purple cup, the picture of her niece in the sunflower frame. How had Harry missed all these things over all the time he’d spent in here? All the time they’d spent together. Yet if you ask him of all the dust bunnies growing at Niall’s place he’d be able to give names to each one.

 

She continues, “I think, we’d like to offer you a promotion to the Head of Editorial, dualy satisfied with your work and all, you deserve it.”

 

Harry bites the inside of his cheek, no feeling akin to happiness racing through him, “Can I think about it?”

 

She nods, surprise lacing her features.

 

\--

_20th of March, 2014_

 

Niall misses afternoon training that day because he chooses to go pick Harry up from the airport instead. He reckons it is okay since he’s been working his ass off since he flew back to Barcelona in early February. He picks out a striped blue button up and khaki shorts because he’s already burning in the sweltering heat of the afternoon.

 

Harry is carrying a duffle bag and has a jacket hooked thru the straps, hurriedly rushing past the crowd and throwing himself into Niall’s arms. He pulls back quick, slotting their mouths together, but instead ends up knocking their teeth to one another, “ _Ow_.” He whinges. Rubs at the front two teeth of his that remind Niall of bugs bunny from Looney Toons, something he used to watch daily as a child, “Do you think saying ‘I missed you’ is getting too redundant?”

 

Niall shoulder’s Harry’s bag, lacing their fingers together, “Can’t say it enough.”

 

\--

Niall’s loft is about an hour away from the airport, the drive though passes by in a flurry in-between exchanging stories, and Harry tells about how Grimmy and El are planning this end of the year vacation they do every year when they all get a week off from work. And while he’s narrating the fun facts about parasitic worms he’d learned and how they tend to control their host that is the ants in a way where during the day they stay inactive but at night they trick them into going ahead and biting a strand of grass so their next host - that are cows - know which patch of grass to eat from. Harry thinks, he’s missing key details, but he doesn’t fret over it since Niall listens with piqued interest.

 

“I got offered a promotion,” he utters, promptly after he’s ended his story. Niall nods, steering the car into the driveway and congratulating him. “Do you not want it?” Harry shrugs, itching his knee. “I don’t know what I want right now, or like do, but dunno how to go about it.”

 

“Ok,” Niall says, taking the key out of the engine, turning to face Harry, “You don’t have to rush to make any decision. Whatever you think is best, yeah?”

 

Harry nods, agreeing, getting out of the car same as Niall and going to grab his bags.”And whatever you decide I’ll support you through it, yeah?”

 

Harry’s never been more grateful.

 

They walk into Niall’s place after hiking the stairs of the building, his loft with an open floor concept, entering right into the kitchen and the living room which is mainly a couch and a flatscreen on the opposing wall. It is a lot less homey in comparison to Niall’s place in London, and Harry thinks it is strange seeing a place that is meant to be his home for the better part of his career. There are no pictures too, and he’d been hoping he’d peek a glimpse into Niall’s family life but.

 

“How come you don’t have any pictures of your family? I’ve got Gem and mum everywhere,” Harry asks, walking towards the sofa and dumping his bag on the ground on the carpet with a plonk. When he turns to look at Niall’s he’s still near the kitchen island, hands skimming the countertop, “I don't. I don’t have much of a family.”

“Oh,” Harry’s voice echo against the bare walls, “I’m sorry.” Niall blinks, twice, before composing himself and treading over to where Harry’s standing, sitting down on the arm of the sofa, “No, it is fine. You can know.” He brings his hands to hold Harry’s, “Urm, my mam passed away when I was younger and am an only child. And, uh, Da he’s.” He struggles with his words, “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” Harry reassures him, gripping tightly onto his thumb. “Da and I don’t get along, like. We had a falling out.”

 

Harry hums, thoughtfully, not sure if he should ask any questions, but then Niall is already saying, “He’d gone off and gotten married someone else, you think it is forever, yeah? Everything that you’d learned knowing will be there till you take your last breath, but.”

 

Harry kisses his forehead, lips pressing gently to Niall’s skin, “Somethings are though if you let them be.”

 

Niall smiles up at him when he pulls back, and he thinks, he’s never believed more in his own words.

\--

 

“And, lastly, this is our bedroom,” Niall says, making Harry turn to look back at him, brow raised. “ _Our_ room?”

 

“Well, wasn’t gonna have you sleep on the couch, y’know?” Niall teases, and Harry loves it when he’s trying to pick on him, but is coming undone with a smile breaking through. Harry loves him.

 

Harry staggers towards Niall, pulling at his belt loop,“How about I pay you back for your kindness?”

 

“Oh, really now?” Niall starts, hands settle on Harry’s hips like anchors stopping him from drifting away. Maybe, he is. Has been for a long while, now. Before anything, before they think they’re ready to, Harry wants to say, “I wanna say something.”

 

“Leave it to you to fuck up a moment,” Niall chuckles to which Harry painstakingly tries not to frown. “Alright, fine, I won’t”

Harry pushes his chest, twirling around towards the bed, but Niall’s caught his wrist in his hand, pulling his back into his own chest, settles his chin on Harry’s shoulder, “Kidding, what’s up?”

 

“I’m happy that I’m here,” Harry says, tentative, and Niall coos at that. “Aw, Harry, you sap. I am glad you’re here to.”

Harry rolls his eyes, untangling himself from Niall, clasping his hands around Niall’s neck, and Niall continues, “So, now, I am going to kiss you.”

“Best idea you’ve had all day,” Harry snorts, meeting Niall halfway into a kiss. Niall always kisses the same. He doesn’t taste like leftover chinese or pancake batter, no; this time he tastes like mints and apple juice. Harry chases after the taste, twisting his tongue around Niall’s, and hitches at the way Niall’s palm slide up under his shirt. Niall’s wearing the Eagles shirt Harry gifted him before leaving New York and it is funny how everything comes round into a circle, starting where they’d left off. From here, though, it is easy. The easiest it has ever been.

 

Harry pulls back for air, steering Niall towards the bed, careful the back of his knees don’t hit the edge, and they don’t. Niall just crab crawls back, tossing off his shoes in the process, and moves to shimmy out of his shorts, and shirt.  Harry himself tugs off his shirt over his head, crawling to where Niall is sitting upright, his legs splayed out, in nothing but his briefs. Harry clambers into his lap when Niall criss-crosses them, pausing to take in how his pupils have dilated - hungry and filled with want. Knowing he’s done that, that he’s the reason behind the hot flush of his cheeks, and the color rising up his chest, drives him insane.

 

He rakes his fingers to Niall’s chest, tugging a bit at his chest hair, and then he’s attacking the length of Niall’s neck, peppering kisses along it.

 

Niall brings his hands to Harry’s back, skating down down his spine and digging into the ridges with his nimble fingers, “Harry, stop covering me in your spit.”

 

Harry draws back, tongue in his cheek, “Oh, now, I must cover you in it _entirely._ ” And Niall’s gasping to get words out, but Harry catches his bottom lip in his own teeth, tugging it and grazing Niall’s chest with the wide span of his palms. If he could, he’d take a snapshot of the way Harry has Niall flushing, how he’s managing to have such an effect on him.

 

He lets go, moving down the bed, and grabbing Niall’s feet by his ankles to stretch out his legs, he starts at the base of his ankle, kissing the tarsals, and moving up until he’s reached the wretched scar that has somehow been a blessing in Harry’s case. If he hadn’t gotten the surgery, who knows if they’d ever - but he stops mid-thought, poking out his tongue and licking up the stitched up skin and Niall groans at that.

 

“You’re disgusting,” he’s saying, but his voice is scratchy, and Harry can see the growing bulge in his briefs from the corner of his eyes, looking up at Niall through his eyelashes before pressing a slobbery kiss to his knee, “And you fucking love it.”

 

Harry hitches further up, licking the skin around his thigh, and then he’s biting into his skin, his teeth prodding at the milky-white skin. Niall hisses, arousal evident in his voice, “ _Harry_.”

 

Harry wants to touch every part of him, learn the ridges, indentations, scars, and print them to memory, but then Niall is yanking him up by his hair, their mouths slick with one another. There is too much tongue, there is too much of everything, yet Harry’s digging his nails into Niall’s shoulders, sweat pooling around their collarbones. In between breaths, and kissing, lips numb and swollen from one another, Niall’s a shade of red that he can paint the world with if allowed, “I’m gonna blow you.”

“Don’t have’ta,” Niall sincerely says, and Harry wants to swallow him, hide him away for himself only. He could live like that. Just him and Niall, no one to bother them. He plays with the waistband of Niall’s briefs, going to bite where the taut skin of his stomach meets them, and bites, then pulls them off with his teeth. Niall arches his back, lifting himself so Harry can pull them down.  Once they’re off, pooled around his thighs, Niall moving to settle back, Harry reaches under to pinch his bum, and Niall swats his head. “Wanker,” he croaks.

Harry licks the head of his cock then, without warning, and Niall’s sent groaning, tangling his fingers into Harry’s hair. They stay there with Harry teasing and taunting with little licks, when it gets too much Niall spits, “Could ya hurry, mate?”

 

Harry laughs, “You taste good, like strawberries. Been eating healthy, yeah?” And then he’s taking him in, whole. Harry’s mouth chokes on Niall in the best way, can feel Niall riding the high of arousal, and then he’s saying, “Close.”

 

Harry swallows when he does come, his tongue licking his cock clean, and then he’s moving up to kiss Niall to which he turns his face, “That’s gross.” Harry frowns, enough to weaken Niall’s resolve and then they’re kissing.

 

Harry falls on Niall’s chest, pressing a kiss to Niall’s nipple, limbs feeling like jelly and he’s warm to the very tips of his fingers, “So, how’d I do?”

 

Niall cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, pushing his hair up and then pressing his lips to Harry’s forehead, “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”

\--

Harry wakes up to pee right before dawn, escaping Niall’s arms for the bathroom, and when he comes back he finds the older boy flat on his chest the streaky moonlight dancing  across his skin, the freckles on his back sharpening. Harry picks his camera up from the dresser and takes a picture for himself. He crawls back into bed, pressing a kiss to freckle on Niall’s back and whispering, “Every part of you.”

 

After a little nudging Niall pulls him into his chest and Harry drifts into sleep with a smile on his face.

 

\--

 

There’s a stream of buzzing, a wiry sound of his phone going off on the bedside table, which wakes him up. He untangles himself from Harry, turning over and seeing the number, and it is _Luis._ He quietly pads outside the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and says, “Hello.”

 

“You’re expected to be here, in two hours mate, I hope you know,” tone straight to the point, no time wasted with pleasantries.

 

“Clearly, it’s not time to be there yet so why are you calling me, Luis?” Niall retorts in a gruff voice.

 

“Well, wanted to let you know you’re benched for this season.”

 

There isn’t much reason, just that his progress has been great, but not enough for him to start. That shouldn’t be a problem, but today they’re supposed to be deciding, today they’re supposed give him an answer and being benched isn’t one. When Luis hangs up, Niall reckons he should move to get ready, and then it comes rushing in. He sees the trophy he’d received as player of the year with most goal from a season ago sitting on his shelf, he sees the certificate he’d received upon joining the club, and when he slides open his closet his jersey. Everything he’s done is for the moment where he could bring home the champions league trophy and somehow, maybe, get a phone call from the person he’s looking to impress the most.

 

He sits at the edge of the bed, Harry’s socked feet poking out of the sheets, and thinks how it should be making a decision instead of fighting everything set forth him, the obstacles good as any distraction until you realize what your goal is. He runs his hand over his face, and it is hard. Very hard.

 

Niall takes a quick shower, brushing his teeth and toweling himself off. He opts to wear jeans and a flannel, pulling on his pants, and when he moves to button up his shirt he hears Harry stirring awake. “Hey,” Niall whispers, too early to speak any louder, the sky a plain gray outside.

 

Harry smiles at him, propping himself up on his elbow, a bluish mark blossomed right above his collarbone. Niall smiles at that, “Going somewhere?”

“Have a game today,” Niall says, stepping forward and harry leans forward, letting Niall cup his jaw and press a kiss to his lips. He pulls backs grabbing his shirt's hem and going fasten the buttons, but Harry puts his hand on top of Niall’s, “Let me.”

 

He gets on his knees, standing upright and the sheets pooling around his waist fall on the mattress leaving him bare, and there is tinge of vulnerability in it, and there is a whole lot of trust and Niall’s chest aches at the way Harry’s concentrating with each button. Doing them up and then patting at Niall’s chest, eyes hazy and soft and full of emotion, “Harry.”

 

“Yeah?” He tilts his head, the curls falling to the side, and if there is a time for everything it should be charted into a schedule and handed over to people so feelings aren’t. And if this is the right thing then it shouldn’t hurt so much. It shouldn’t have to be like this.

 

Harry can probably read him, probably see the tense roll of his shoulders because he says, “You’re gonna great, bub. Gonna sweep them off their feet.”

 

Oh, and he does continue, putting his head on Niall’s shoulder, “And like, I’m always here yeah.” Traces circles on Niall’s chest not helping the way his chest tightens, “I-”

 

“Don’t,” Niall stops him. Harry looks up, abruptly, eyes wide and there is something else there. There is a streak of hurt. “I, we should wait, yeah? I think we should wait for that.”

 

Niall has never been a coward but untethering himself from Harry’s arms, and walking out of the house thereafter does make him feel like one.

 

\--

He doesn’t get to play, but he gets to watch. Louis commandeers the ball most of the game, steering towards the goal, and Niall can see the profound absence on the field, himself right there supplying to every move Louis makes. Atletico Madrid have a tight defense, probably on par with Bayerns from last year, but somehow Louis manages to score a goal with the help of Neymar and Rafinha. The end up with a tie even after going into overtime, and it is only because they switch out Masip for Stegen. And Niall? He’s watching the way everyone’s feet pace over the coarse grass, sees the way the ball dribbles between them, smells the sweat drenched air, and there is an answer there. There is a time for everything, there is and this is what his asks for right now.

 

\--

Harry scours the kitchen and finds puff pastry and spinach in the compartment box of the fridge, sets out to make himself some spinach puffs. He’s rolling the dough over, when the door opens to Niall, “Hey! I figured I could cook us up some dinner. Thought that’d be good, yeah?”

 

Niall stares at him for a bit, and then he asks, “Is that mine?” He’s pointing at the plain black shirt Harry had found in Niall’s closet. It smelled most like him  so he’d put it on. “Yeah, that is okay, right?” He asks, suddenly hesitant and self conscious. Maybe, he shouldn’t have gone around snooping, but his clothes were dirty so he’d figured. Maybe.

 

Niall shakes his head, forcing a smile to his face that Harry can tell, “Yeah, no it is fine.”

 

“Is everything ok?” Harry asks, while Niall shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the coat hanger behind the front door. He’s wringing his fingers together and it is a nervous tick, something he’d picked up on when he saw him talking to his mum, “Yeah.Urm, actually, can we talk?”

 

Harry nods, following him back to the living room, and sitting on the couch, Niall doesn’t sit next to him, but instead sits on the floor crossing his legs in front him and playing with the hem of his jeans that meet at his ankles.

 

His head is ducked when he says, “They’re planning on cutting me from the team.”

“What?” Harry says in disbelief, “They can’t do that? You were injured during a game, that. Isn’t that like not allowed?”

 

“Technically, no, my contract was up right after that and since I didn’t play for this season I’m allowed to be let go off,” Niall explains, still not looking up adding to the nervous twitch of Harry’s leg. He pushes down his weight to the ground, and says, “So, like, what are you going to do?”

 

Niall gulps, “Well, they were supposed to tell me today if I’d be put back on the team, and there’s a clause about.”

“About what?” Harry prompts, leaning forward to get a better look at Niall’s, face but. “Niall, could you look at me while talking? What’s the clause?”

 

When he does look up his eyes are misty, close to tears, but not quite. And he croaks, “I’m sorry.”

 

Harry shakes his head, still not processing what is happening, his head pounding into a headache, he’s not had anything to eat all day. “Niall, what is the clause?”

 

“I’m supposed to stay here in Barcelona and it is better for the club, and I should stay here.”

“Yeah?” Harry says aloud, “That should be fine. We’ll be seeing each other less, but it’ll be fine.”

 

Niall bites his lower lip, sighing, and Harry gets it. He doesn’t want them to stay together. Oh, it’s been so simple. So, simple since he walked in. He wants to break it off. Harry takes in a sharp breath, his throat hiccuping, “You. _You want to break up_.”

 

“It won’t be fair,” Niall rebutts.

 

“To whom? You or me?” Harry finds himself saying, his fingers shaking, buzzing like a hummingbird’s wings, “You’re breaking up with me cause _it is hard?_ You’re not even willing to put in the effort?” There are tears falling from his eyes, but he can’t be arsed to wipe them, the shock crippling and sitting in this hugely empty loft, wearing nothing but Niall’s clothes, he feels entirely naked.

 

Harry heaves, “I fucking lo-” stopping to realize their conversation from earlier today, the same one that had been eating away at him, “Oh my god, you knew. You knew that’s why you didn’t let me.”

 

Niall reaches up, placing his hand on Harry’s knee and he wants to push it away to tell him to never touch him again, but then Niall kisses it. His lips soft against Harry’s knobby knees, and mumbles, “I can’t put you through that. I can’t make you do something that. It is hard, Harry, and I know.”

 

He looks up, “I want you to know, proper. But I can’t give you that right now.”

 

“So, you’re choosing to leave me?” Harry croaks, voice breaking with each word, and he’s shivering or shaking he doesn’t know, but he’s cold all over and he wants to scream. “You’re letting go, Niall.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

\--

  
_22nd of March, 2014_

 

Harry pushes the key into the keyhole, twisting it and turning the knob to open the door, it opens to an empty living room so he moves to his room, throwing his duffle bag next to his desk chair and going to sit on his bed. He supinates his hand, blinking, until tears trickle down to his palms. He hears a knock, looking up to find Eleanor, “Haz, you’re ba- Oh gosh, Harry what’s wrong?”

 

Harry sniffles, falling into Eleanor’s arms, her tiny frame enveloping his, “He broke up with me, El. He broke up with me.”

 

_31st of March, 2014_

Harry knocks on Evanna’s door. She tells him to come in, and when he does she smiles at him, “I am gonna guess you’ve decided to accept the offer, Mr. Styles?”

 

How odd that they’re back to square one in their relationship, ow odd that his life has come to a full circle, and he’s shaking his head. A wistful smile taking over his face, “I am handing in my letter of resignation.”

 

“Whatt?” Appalled she gets up, taking the paper Harry is handing over to her, and after skimming it she asks, “What happened? Harry, you’re an excellent asset to our magazine.”

Harry shrugs, thinking back to all the reasons that have led him to here, right now, and to the ticket he’d purchased the night before with a due date. “I think this isn’t what I want right now, I might’ve outgrown this job, if I make sense?”

 

And there’s a hanging silence over them, he doesn’t know if this means that he can leave and go back to his desk, or it means that he’s meant to hear his last session of reprimanding, but then Evanna’s otherwise sharp features soften, and she is saying, “If this is what you think is right, then, I can stop you can I?”

 

She laughs, a low cackle, “We’ll miss you and if you ever wish you’re welcomed back anytime.”

He stuffs that information away, grateful that she’s able to keep the cordial atmosphere despite what went down between them and before he’s exiting she asks, “So, what is next on the map?”

 

“Prague,” he grins.

 

_10th of April, 2015_

 

Packing for backpacking is a lot easier than he’d imagined. Especially after going thru all those 101 websites he’d googled he’s sorted away enough to last him for the first half of his trip. He’s just done calling his mum and letting her know about his flight so she can come up and say goodbye when Eleanor walks in holding a black t-shirt, “You wanna pack this?”

 

Harry’s heart clenches at the sight of it, the radio silence over the past two weeks haunting his cellphone, and thinks he could burn it, he could rip it, but he takes it. Stuffing it into the overfilled bag and then searching to find the stuff he’d sorted to hand over to Eleanor, “Ok, so I made a list of things you’ll need to take care off once I’m gone, one the rent goes every first friday of the month, okay? Took care of this month and the water bill is part of our utilit -”

 

Sniffling interrupts his discourse, looking up to find Eleanor tearing up, “El, why are you crying?”

“Why are you leaving me?” She tackles into his chest, Harry wrapping his hands around her waist, stroking her back, “You’re leaving me to take care of adult things, Harry. I don’t do bills. _That is your job_.”

 

Harry laughs into the crown of her head, tightening his hold around her, “I’ll miss you too, El.”

She pulls back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm, “Are you sure about this? This whole thing?”

 

Harry looks over his shoulder at the wall of collage, the pictures held together with putty and everyone of them tells a different story, a story about his world, “Yeah, I think, I wanna know the world a little better. You know?”

She does because she’s been heard him talk about this, wee hours into the night when they’re drunk off their ass, she’s heard him picture a dream. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he likes having his camera, he likes not having a forced subject, and he likes taking pictures.

 

His mum and Gem do come to drop him at the airport, so do Louis and Eleanor, Grimmy and Pixie, and it is a bit overwhelming having so many people bid him goodbye and his mother does tear up. His sis pulls his ear and places a swift kiss to his cheek, and Eleanor hugs him too tight and Grimmy kiss his other cheek. And somehow Harry is left finding someone else in the crow. He doesn’t dwell on it, goes to shake Louis’ hand, but he pulls him into a hug, and says, “Stay safe.”

“Thanks,” Harry pulls back, but then he’s stuffing an envelope in Harry’s hand and giving him a soft smile. Harry pushes the paper into back pocket and kisses his mum one last time before walking to the gates of security. It is not until he’s settled into his seat on the plane that he remembers the envelope, carefully taking it out and ripping it open.

 

It starts with, _Heard you’re leaving._

 

\--

 

All the things he’s done add up, pooling over the bucket of things he’d planned to do, because the expected is never the same as the observed as he’d learned back in Secondary school. So, Niall thinks that sometimes waiting for a good thing is the right thing to do, and if having to let go of the best thing during it is necessary, he had to have been brave enough to make the decision. Rain riddles the stands that are brimming with spectators, every move of his under the taxing gaze of his well-wishers, and those who don’t want him here, don’t want him running across the green field chasing after the ball like his life depended on it. He blocks it all out, the cheers, the profanities of overzealous fans from the opposing team, and focuses on one thing, a soft gravelly voice, “ _Good things take time._ ”

 

He jukes past David Luiz, making direct eye contact with Louis, and they tighten the defense, Suárez in-between them and just as Moura skates the ball towards Cavani, Niall pushes in stealing the balling and steers it towards the opponent's goal post. He’s quick to read the flight of the ball, passing it to Louis, and there on out they make it a tight knitted game of passing back and forth, careful of the hounding members of the other team, once they near the goal post and the goalie arches to protect it, Niall plants the support foot of his ahead of the ball, catching Cavani off guard when he reaches forward with his foot to steal the ball, inevitably skidding and allowing Niall the space to maneuver the ball enough to shoot it into the net. The goalie isn’t able to block it.

 

They score their winning goal two goals after that, and 2 out of three of them are under Niall’s belt, his teammates rushing towards him, sweaty jersey’s meshing together in a group huddle. A warm sensation fills his chest and he feels mountains crumbling in relief, and it could be the start of what he’s wanted for the longest time.

 

Niall escapes from the throng of men, just to tackle Louis, knocking their chests together, “We did it!”

 

And Louis only says, kissing Niall’s forehead, “You did it.”


	4. Epilogue

UEFA’s Champions League for the year 2014-2015 is held at Olympiastadion, Berlin, on the 6th of June, 2015. The entire locker room is buzzing, Neymar calling together the goalies one last time to run over their drills, Louis bickering with Douglas and Liam. They’d made up towards the end of last year at Zayn’s christmas party, because of course Niall didn’t have it in him to hold so much anger, and because Zayn asked and he can’t exactly say no to him. 

 

Niall crouches over to tie the knot of his cleats, his jersey still clinging to the smell of the fresh laundry powder, and there is a knot of nerves at the pit of stomach, worry lining his thoughts, but he thinks how two years ago they hadn’t even made it this far. Two years ago he’d earned a what many thought to be a career ending injury, and to be in the running of Top Goal scorer this season blows his mind. He’s just done doing his second shoe when Alves walks over to him, “Hey, mate, someone brought this package over for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Niall says taking the box, curiously examining the polka dotted gift wrap, it is pink and white and nothing any of Niall’s friends from London would pick. He finds himself unwrapping it opening to find a rolling stones shirt which he’s 90% sure he’s seen before, a friendship bracelet, and  _ a sterling silver owl necklace _ . Niall’s breath hitches as he promptly drops the bag on the bench, going after Alves, and pulling him by the shoulder, “Hey, who gave you the box?”   
  


Alves shrugs, thinking back to the person, “Dunno, man, was a guy about our age. Said it was for you so I brought it over.”   
  


“Where’d you see him?”   
  


“Coming out of the kiosk,” Alves says, and Niall’s rushing out the door without any further information. He climbs down the stairs and pushes the door open out to the kiosk where the olympics logo hangs proudly with steps in between and on the same steps he find him. He’s cut his hair short, shorter than he’d ever had when they’d been together, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt.

 

He catches his breath, the air in his lungs expanding, and his limbs are paralyzed with nervousness that is far greater than that of playing at the finals of UEFA. But he braves it, swallowing the ball of guilt sitting in his throat for the past year and says, “That’s my shirt.”   
  


Harry looks up from his phone, smiling softly, eyes greener than Niall remembers, “Couldn’t find a laundromat so settled for this.”

 

Niall walks towards him, tentative steps, and stops short of a few inches between them, Harry standing to meet him at eye level, “You’re here.”   
  


“Yep, all of me,” Harry replies flailing his hands around and Niall can’t get his hopes up, he can’t think he’s forgiven because he hadn’t been kind but. He asks, anyway, “Why?”

 

“Heard there was a game in the famous historical stadium. Did you know the Nazi Olympics were held here, Niall?” Harry looks up at the logo. 

 

“Harry,” Niall breathes, impatient, his heart racing a mile per minute.

 

Harry doesn’t look down, stares up at the alto and stratus clouding over them, “You were right. It wasn’t the time.”

 

“No, I -” pauses, to take in Harry’s words and thinks what he is saying. And it shouldn’t be simple, but for them things were only hard because others made it out to be. Because at the core them being together was the easiest thing to do. So, he lets Harry finish. “I was looking for too much and you weren’t in a position to give it to me, and then I realized I didn’t even know what I wanted. I just knew one thing.”   
  


“And what is that?” Niall prods, biting down on his lower lip. A swift breeze running through his shorts, the sky bright with the sun held up high, and Harry says, “I love you.”   
  


“Love? Present tense?” 

 

Harry smiles at that, stepping forward, inching his face closer and then looking up through his eyelashes, the brown of them shinning under the sunlight, and Niall nods. “Present tense,” he says himself before Harry presses his lips to Niall. And then just too quick he pulls back. 

 

Niall keeps his eyes closed for a second longer, savoring the lingering feeling and admits, “I am sorry for what I did.” Opens his eyes to Harry tilting his head, and for the first time saying it back, “I love you too.”   
  


Harry chuckles, holding out his hand which Niall grabs, lacing their fingers together, “It would be pretty embarrassing otherwise, no? Sending that letter Louis’ hand and me coming back with that shitty package.”

 

Niall laughs, which he pretty sure echoes in his chest, “I thought the owl didn’t speak to you?”   
  


“Of course it didn’t, Niall, don’t be silly it is an inanimate object,” Harry tuts. And like nothing happened over the course of the last 9 months, he segues into telling stories of his adventures, nattering off about the monks he’d found in Tibet and when they reach the locker rooms he goes and sits in the stands. 

 

Niall scores the winning goal of that game, bringing home the trophy everyone counted him to, and the crowd erupts into cheers when Morata isn’t able to steal the ball from him, and when he has the most assists and when Iniesta gets man of the match. 

 

The season closes with fireworks over the stadium, his team chanting their home cheer, and Niall is too distracted looking out into the crowd for Harry holding up a camera. He’s still there when he rushes back to the locker room, still there when two years later Niall’s the best man to Louis and Eleanor’s wedding, still there when he finally finds the courage to call Bobby. 

 

Harry’s there and it is like he didn’t leave, like he didn’t go to find a part of himself. And a little ways down when Harry’s done freelancing, when he’s set up a personal studio, he’s still there crawling into bed with Niall, slotting himself into his arms. Niall thinks it is nice to look forward to another goal, now. The white picket fence one. 

 

Fin.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> PLS PLS PLS LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS AND COME TALK TO ME @ ZAYNKAPHOOL.TUMBLR.COM


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